


Tangled Up in Blue

by MizzRicki



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Fashion Designer Peter Hale, Fashion Designer Stiles Stilinski, Lydia Martin & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, M/M, New York, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-03-30 02:18:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19032739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizzRicki/pseuds/MizzRicki
Summary: Peter Hale, veteran menswear designer, received trademark approval for his own signature color just in time for his 20th Anniversary show at New York Fashion Week. When he learned that some upstart, unknown, streetwear designer was using the newly minted Hale Blue™ in some of his designs, Peter decided to go put thisStileskid in his place.





	Tangled Up in Blue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Faladrast (surfgirl1)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/surfgirl1/gifts).



> Well, here it is, my very first fanfic, ever. Yay! Thanks so much to the lovely [Faladrast](https://archiveofourown.org/users/surfgirl1/pseuds/Faladrast) for the inspiring artwork, and to [lavenderlotion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderlotion/pseuds/lavenderlotion) for organizing this event.
> 
> Check out the artwork [HERE](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19223257)!

**********

“It’s a skirt,” Scott said, his face doing a complicated worried/embarrassed/angry thing.

“Nah, dude, it’s a kilt!” Stiles put on his most winning smile. 

It was definitely not a kilt. Kilts were wrap-around, pleated garments made of tartan wool. What he’d handed Scott was blue, and leather, and there was nary a pleat to be found. It was a skirt. But it was a _men’s_ skirt, and it was awesome, and Stiles did _not_ have time to take Scott to task about the misogyny buried in his distaste for the garment. 

“Just put it on, dude. We’re gonna lose the light.”

Scott looked relieved to hear it wasn’t a skirt and did as he was told. 

Stiles had set up this photo shoot in a “courtyard” (i.e. alley) between a four-story brick apartment building and a five-story stucco monstrosity, so there was a short window of time when the sun reached the space between the buildings. The brick side of the alley had some fantastic graffiti, though, and Stiles wanted to get some pictures with his designs in front of it. His shoestring budget didn’t allow for studio time or professional photographers, but then, his aesthetic wouldn’t work with those things, anyway.

Stiles was just about done setting up his lighting (four old iPhones on the ground propped up on their Pop Sockets with the flashlights on) when Scott came out of the dressing room (a plywood “floor” and three rolling garment racks with muslin panels clothespinned to their frames) looking nervous and uncomfortable.

Well, at least the clothes looked great. Stiles could work with the rest.

The black tee was pretty basic, but it had a deep vee at the neck and a subtle metallic sheen, and the fabric managed to be both flowy and clingy. Scott had _just_ enough definition to make the clingy parts interesting; the trick was going to be in catching the metallic sheen in the pics. The knee-length skirt was heavy enough to hang in natural lines without too much movement. The combat boots were authentic Army issue, scuffed and worn rather than shiny.

Now, accessories.

“Put these on,” Stiles said, handing Scott a couple of blue leather wrap bracelets and a pair of yellow sunglasses. He eyed Scott critically, humming and tapping a beat against his leg. “Hmm . . . unlace the boots. And pull the socks up a bit. I want to be able to see them.” The blue and yellow plaid socks tied it all together.

Scott did as he was told without further grumbling. He was used to this by now, Stiles was sure. He’d been modelling Stiles’ clothes for half his life, after all.

Stiles and his dad moved to Ithaca, New York when Stiles was ten, and he and Scott had become instant best friends. In junior high, Scott had become a frequent guinea pig for Stiles’ forays into fashion design. By the time he’d finished high school, Stiles had made, and saved, enough money designing and sewing clothes for other students that he could have covered his first year's college tuition. Instead, he’d moved to the city to start his own clothing line.

Fox House was born. Edgy men’s streetwear for a younger crowd. Jeans and tees and hoodies in boundary-pushing cuts and colors. Shorts and jackets and vests. New takes on old ideas. New takes on _new_ ideas. If there was one thing Stiles never ran out of, it was ideas.

Three years later, and he was still holding his head above water. Which, in this industry, was a major accomplishment. He may even be getting ahead, if his orders for the next couple of months were to be believed. He kept his overhead low by having his friends model his clothes and doing his photo shoots himself. Pics from his phone were good enough for his online store and his social media accounts, which he spent a lot of time updating personally rather than hiring a PR firm. He bought fabrics and supplies from bargain bins or from contacts who let him know when they had something going at a good price.

Like this blue leather he used on the skirt Scott was wearing. Dmitry had given him an almost unbelievable deal, and Stiles had bought a shit ton of it. Dmitry had seemed a little weird when he’d shown it to Stiles and told him the asking price, and it had seemed like too good of a deal to be true, so Stiles’ Spidey-sense had been tingling like crazy. But what could it possibly matter? It was leather, not drugs. Now it was going to be in almost half the looks Stiles planned to show at Fashion Week.

It took Scott a while to loosen up, so Stiles took fifty or sixty pictures of him in the skirt outfit before finally getting some that would work on the Fox House web store. Then Stiles had him change into a pair of “ripped” jeans where all the rips had been sealed with zippers and a “plaid” leather vest, where the plaid effect was made by carefully assembling strips of leather, including the blue.

“Is this the same blue as the kilt?” Scott asked, fingering the buttery material.

“Yeah, buddy. Wait’ll you see the suit. You’re gonna love it.”

**********

"I have good news," Erica said as she came sashaying into the photography studio holding a fat manila envelope. Peter, Boyd, and Jackson all looked over as she crossed the room, and Peter could see she was soaking up the attention while they waited for her to drop whatever good news bomb she was hoarding. So _dramatic_. Peter, being a bit of a drama queen himself, approved. Finally, Cheshire grin in place, she said, "We got the trademark approval."

Boyd and Jackson let out a whoop, and Peter didn’t even reprimand them.

Peter Hale Designs had been working for more than a year to get a trademark for "Hale Blue", a specific shade of blue Peter had been using in his designs ever since his first fashion show, twenty years ago. It was his signature color, and he was a big enough name in the fashion industry that most menswear designers shied away from using it anyway. Now, with the color trademarked, no one else would be able to use it in menswear without his express consent . . . which he wasn't likely to give. The show he was planning for his twentieth anniversary Fashion Week was made entirely in Hale Blue—every single suit and sports jacket and tux in his fall line. And the trademark approval had come in just in time. 

Peter was pleased, but not as exuberant as his staff; he’d known everything would work out. Everything always did.

Peter had invested twenty years of hard work and dedication to garner this level of recognition and achievement. Who else warranted trademarked colors? UPS Brown. 3M Yellow. Louboutin Red. And now, _Hale Blue_. Yes, it was a victory, but it was no more than he was due.

Peter owned five floors of this downtown Manhattan building, floors eight through twelve. Both photography studios were on the ninth, along with a small cubicle farm for interns. The eighth floor housed all the various administrative staff, and ten and eleven held the design studios. Twelve had Peter, Derek, and Erica’s offices, a couple of receptionists, and a seldom-used conference room.

There were two stores in New York: a commercial space in the Oculus at the World Trade Center and a smaller, elite storefront where high-end clients ordered custom-made items. There were ten other retail stores across the country, plus three Peter Hale Accessories locations where he marketed shoes, belts, and ties. Peter was board advisor at Parsons and a frequent guest judge on Project Runway. He was fashion royalty, the emperor of his own fashion dynasty. 

And now, he had his very own color.

Perhaps he would allow the others some champagne or some other small celebration. Later, though. Right now, there was still work to do.

"Back to work, you two," Peter said, snapping his fingers in Boyd and Jackson's direction. Boyd, Peter’s staff photographer, and Jackson, a model they'd worked with steadily for the past couple of years, were taking some teaser photographs for an upcoming ad campaign marketed to GQ and Men's Health for their fall line. Jackson was up on a raised dais in a blue sport coat with subtle black patches at the elbows, black slacks, and a white dress shirt with the first few buttons undone. Boyd was crouched on the floor in front of the model, his camera shooting from below with a green screen behind Jackson, where Peter knew they'd add a cloudy sky in post-production.

To Erica, he said, "Let the PR firm know we're a go on the full Hale Blue campaign. Authorize the press release, and book me a couple of print interviews. The sooner we get the word out, the fewer people I'll have to sue." Feeling a little whimsical he added, "And make a couple display-quality copies of the trademark approval and have them framed. We'll hang them in the main office and in the downtown store."

Erica threw him a two-finger mock salute, and went to carry out his orders, sauntering out the way she'd came in. Just as she reached the door, it opened and Derek came in carrying a tablet, his resting bitch face firmly in place. Erica cast a glance at Peter to see if he wanted her to stay for whatever it was Derek was here for, but he waved her off and she went to go get the ball rolling on the press details.

Derek came in like a thunder cloud, but that wasn't anything new. Peter had taken Laura and Derek, his niece and nephew, in to raise after the fire that had almost wiped out their entire family more than ten years ago. He'd done his best, but no one would ever call Peter _nurturing_ , and Derek had never quite bounced back after the tragedy. He'd put both teenagers in counseling, and Laura had eventually moved on reasonably well and was happily married with two kids and living in Brooklyn, writing children’s books, of all things. Derek had elected to join Peter’s business after majoring in marketing, but still seemed to live his entire life on guard from attack. He hadn’t dated at all since coming to New York, viewing every woman (or man) who hit on him with suspicion, being downright rude when he turned them down.

Although there was, perhaps, a bit of change on that horizon. Laura had confided in Peter that there was an artist Derek was possibly interested in. Peter would wait and see if anything came of it, but, either way, it seemed like progress.

Derek crossed the room, brandishing the tablet like a weapon.

"You need to see this," Derek said.

**********

Stiles _thought_ he had his pop-up shop ready, but that was before Lydia came in like a strawberry-blonde tsunami in heels and started changing everything he'd done. He wasn’t even mad. Lydia was a marketing genius. No, no qualifier necessary—Lydia was a genius, period.

Lydia was studying mathematics and physics at Cornell and had hunted Stiles down and forcibly befriended him when one of his former high-school classmates had worn one of his designs to class at the university. Lydia had demanded Danny give her the name of the designer who'd made his shirt and had been aghast to learn it was made by a no-name designer, a high school student, for crying out loud. Stiles had moved to the city by then and she tracked him down and demanded he let her help him with the label he was trying to establish. Stiles knew she was a big part of the success he'd had over the past three years. She worked almost as hard for Fox House as Stiles did while _also_ pursuing a double major, and he didn’t even pay her.

She was a goddess.

"Where's your sketchbook?" Lydia asked from where she was rearranging some looks hanging on garment racks, and Stiles sighed and went to fetch it from his messenger bag like a good little lackey. He knew whose show this was now. Better to comply and get it over with. Lydia flipped through the sketchbook, tearing out a page here and a page there and laying them out, (haphazardly, as far as Stiles could tell) on some of the display tables. She'd already taken some of the more refined drawings and had them framed and hung them on the walls of the shop.

Stiles didn't operate a full-time store, doing most of his sales online or through commissions. This retail space had been leased for only one month to use as a pop-up shop and was in a nicer neighborhood, closer to 7th Avenue, than either of Stiles' previous two shops. But business had been good for the past year, and there was already a lot of positive buzz about his upcoming fall line, and Lydia had worked up some convincing graphs about the merits of a nicer address this time around. This 950-square-foot storefront had cost Stiles nearly $9,000 for only thirty days, and even that price had been a discount, thanks to Lydia's adept negotiations.

Lydia asked, "How did your date with Phil go?" 

"Paul," Stiles corrected. "Total snoozefest. I almost fell asleep in my soup."

To be fair, with getting the store up and running and with Fashion Week being only two short months away Stiles was running almost entirely on caffeine and adrenaline, so taking time out of his busy schedule to go on a date with the Wall Street guy hadn’t been the best idea. But he still thought he could have stayed awake if the date had been with someone even remotely interesting. Turns out nice hair and adorkable glasses weren't enough to keep Stiles' interest. You had to be able to, you know, carry on a conversation. Stiles didn’t think it was too much to ask that a person be able to speak on topics _other_ than the stock market.

"I could have told you," Lydia said. "Those financial types are all wrong for you. There's a girl in my-"

"No!" Stiles cut her off. "No set-ups. I'm too busy right now. Plus, it's kinda humiliating. I'll find my own dates, thank-you-very-much. Once I have time. After Fashion Week."

"After Fashion Week there will be the holidays, and then you'll be working on your spring line. You have to _make_ time, not just find it." She waved a hand in dismissal. "Fine, I'll leave you alone about it. Date, don't date, whatever. But _this_ . . . we absolutely must discuss this." She was holding up a sketch.

Stiles was crossing the room to see what had gotten her riled up when his phone vibrated in his pocket. An actual call, not a text, which meant it was probably his dad.

"Hello, daddio, what's up?

"Hello, Stiles. I was calling with some news,” Stiles’ dad said.

“Oh, yeah? Fire away.”

“Sheriff Thompson is retiring. And they want to put me on the November ballot to replace him."

"What? Seriously? That's awesome!" Stiles paused. "I mean, that's awesome, right?" Stiles' dad had groused more than once about how much he missed being a detective, about how his promotion to Captain had meant leaving "real" police work behind and dealing in nothing but bureaucracy. Being Sheriff would be a purely political post, even further removed from the day to day activities of policing. 

"Yeah, son, it's a good thing. It'll mean an opportunity to drive real change around here. Plus," insert self-depreciating laugh, "if I never have to sign off on another scheduling approval again, then it’ll still be too soon." 

"That's great, pops. I can’t wait until I can call you ‘Sheriff Stilinski’. I’m gonna do it all the time, too. ‘Sheriff Stilinski, could you please pass the butter?’ ‘Sheriff Stilinski, do you want to watch the new Marvel movie?' It'll be fun for everyone.”

“Let’s see how the election goes before you start plotting ways to make me crazy, okay?”

“It’s never too early to start planning,” Stiles said. “Are you just calling to share the good news, or did you need me to participate somehow? I'm pretty busy until September, but after that I could maybe come up and help out. Knock on doors, kiss some babies, pass out some flyers?"

John laughed. "As yet, I am running unopposed. But thanks for the support, kiddo. How's everything down in the big, scary city?"

Stiles chatted with his dad for a few more minutes, but, if there was one thing they'd established in their relationship over the years, it was that his dad did _not_ care about fashion, so it was mostly just John trying to make Stiles feel guilty about how long it had been since he last made the trip up to Ithaca, and Stiles caving and promising to go up there next weekend.

By the time they hung up, Lydia had completely revamped the store. Stiles was a _designer_ , for fuck's sake, but even he could admit that Lydia had an eye for what would help sell his merchandise. She hounded him about one of his sketches, wanting a sample in the store right away and not backing off until Stiles promised to sew one up tomorrow, or the day after at the latest, so she could display it. They locked the store, now ready for its grand opening in the morning, and he took her for a thank-you martini.

**********

Peter eyed the outside of the temporary storefront for Fox House. The things Derek had shown him yesterday had been interesting, for streetwear, and the displays in the two windows flanking the store entrance were similarly . . . interesting. Not at all to Peter's style, or that of his customers, but he could see there was some real talent there. It was raw and unschooled, but he could understand the appeal for some people.

The problem, of course, was that entirely too much of the inventory he could see from the window and too many of the items he’d seen on the Fox House website were blue. _Hale_ Blue, and Peter couldn’t allow that, not this year. It wasn’t personal; Peter had already sent firm “Cease and Desist” letters to three other designers. He had very specific plans for his upcoming twentieth-anniversary Fashion Week show, some of which involved making sure that Hale Blue didn’t show up in any online or print stories about Fashion Week unless they were stories about Peter’s show.

Peter didn’t know why Fox House and its young owner, Stiles Stilinski, deserved a personal visit rather than the same letter he’d sent the others. Curiosity, maybe? Maybe it just sounded like fun? Whatever the impulse had been that had brought him here, Peter found himself begrudgingly impressed so far.

There were nearly twenty people in the small-ish space, and Peter recognized one young Broadway star, one fellow designer, and one well-known pop star. A _very_ well known pop star, and his entourage. Peter was a bit taken aback at the obvious popularity of someone he had assumed was an unknown. The boy's been around, what . . . two years? Three? He was not competition and there were no intersections between this boy and Peter's style or clientele, but he was apparently doing quite well for a certain demographic.

Peter recognized Stiles Stilinski from pictures on his website and his various social media accounts. The young man was talking animatedly with a redheaded girl near the rear of the store. He was somehow prettier in person, the static pictures online failing to capture his frenetic energy, the way his large movements were still somehow graceful, and the surprising width of his shoulders. All in all, an adorable little morsel.

As Peter made his way through the room, he studied the space with a critical eye. It was a small space, most likely meant to be occupied by jewelry or handbags or shoes. Sketches, some black and white, some colored with marker or pencil, were hanging on the walls, while others were filling in gaps by lying flat on the display tables, as there weren’t actually a lot of clothes in the store. Some clothes were hanging, widely spaced, on the six garment racks spread throughout the room, and some others were folded or displayed on six tables, and a few more appeared to be stapled directly to the walls. There were two dressmaker forms and two mannequins displaying other looks, including the blue leather hooded jacket that had caught Peter's eye when he'd perused the store's offerings online. The jacket was pieced together from triangular pieces, like a mosaic but all in one color. It looked like a piece of art. 

As Peter approached, the young designer and his redheaded companion broke off their conversation and switched their attention to him. Peter put on Charming Smile #2 and held out his hand. 

"You must be Stiles."

His eyes were a golden brown, like whiskey, and he was taller up close than he'd seemed. He gave Peter a quick once-over, and he flushed a little as he shook Peter's hand. Very Interesting.

"Hey, um, hi. Yeah, Stiles, that's me. I'm sorry, I don't know who you are." The redhead nudged Stiles, trying to get his attention, but he didn't look away from Peter. 

"I'm Peter Hale," he said, expecting to see recognition in the younger man's face, and felt absurdly disappointed when recognition didn't come. 

"Okay, cool, hi, I'm Stiles, but we already covered that. Did you have questions about . . . or did you want to order . . ." Stiles trailed off, apparently unsure how to continue, since it must have been obvious to anyone that Peter, in his elegant suit, was not someone who would be a customer here.

Peter hoped his annoyance at not being recognized didn't show on his face. Sure, he was an egotistical bastard, but he wasn't a _diva_. He didn't expect _every_ person he encountered to bow and scrape before him . . . just most of them. 

The redhead elbowed Stiles again and extended her own hand. Peter reluctantly released Stiles' hand and turned to the girl.

"Of Peter Hale Designs. I'm Lydia Martin, a business associate of Stiles. It's very nice to meet you." Her tone implied it was _not_ , in fact, very nice to meet him. "What can we do for you, Mr. Hale?" Beautiful, well-dressed, and shrewd, Peter decided, assessing the young woman. Peter wondered if they were a couple, but decided that, no, the vibe was all wrong. Friends, then, given her dragon-at-the-gate attitude.

Peter glanced at Stiles again and suppressed a sigh. What a shame. He really was delectable. But bed partners were a dime a dozen, and this was business.

"I'm hoping to forestall any . . . issues," Peter said, holding out his hand toward Erica without taking his eyes off Stiles. She placed a folder in his hand, which he extended toward Stiles. "I have here, a copy of my trademark for menswear in _that_ particular shade of blue, as well as a cease and desist notice," he said gesturing to the jacket on the mannequin. Peter let Smirk #1 slide onto his face. "So, unfortunately, I'm going to have to insist that you remove all of these items from your line or I'll be forced to take legal action." 

This time when Stiles face flushed, it was from obvious anger. Less pleasant than when it had been from that spark of attraction only a few minutes before. Disappointing, but unavoidable.

The redhead, Lydia, snatched the folder from his hand, and opened it, scanning the documents quickly while Stiles sputtered.

"You, you can't just . . . you can't just tell people what they can and can't design, dude. That's-"

"This is from yesterday," Lydia cut in. "This trademark approval is from _yesterday_." She directed a calculating look at Peter, then at Erica, then back to Peter, and then closed the folder. "I think you'll find that everything for sale here was designed, crafted, and advertised before your trademark was granted, as can be evidenced by numerous social media posts and web-store listings. You may have legal standing for any designs going forward, but you don't have a prayer of trying to enforce your trademark on items which have been in development for months."

Peter knew this, of course, but had assumed that the younger, less experienced designer would be easily cowed. Peter felt mildly affronted that they weren't intimidated. He rather prided himself on his intimidation factor.

"Not only that, dude," Stiles chimed in, "but it would hardly reflect well on _Peter Hale Designs_ " he said the company name with a sneer, "if it became known that you decided to celebrate your shiny new trademark by bullying other designers."

Lydia picked up that thread. "I assume you know that Fox House has a strong social media and internet presence. We may be young, but we have a large platform from which we could spread the word about your . . . less than generous attitude."

Peter elected to sidestep, rather than concede. The current merchandise wasn't what he was here for, anyway.

"Certainly I didn't mean the items you're already selling here in your quaint little shop." He had, but there was no reason to quibble. "I was referring to anything you were planning for the future. For Fashion Week, for instance? Aren't you planning some little showing at one of the very, _very_ minor runways?"

Stiles visibly cringed, then stepped forward, his hands fisted at his sides, but Lydia laid a hand on his shoulder, subtly pulling him back.

"You know what, dude, you can take your stupid fucking paperwork and your stuffy fucking attitude and-"

"We'll certainly take that under advisement," Lydia cut in again, "and evaluate what, if anything, might need to be adjusted for September."

Stiles looked mutinous, but kept his mouth shut. Since Peter knew he'd won, he could afford to be magnanimous. He glanced meaningfully around the shop, eyes lighting again on the pop star, who was holding at least two garments and a pile of sketches.

"You know, you have some very interesting ideas. Raw, of course, and could use some refining. Did you even go to design school?" At Stiles' silent glare, Peter continued, "Some schooling could take off some of your rough edges." Peter looked again at the blue jacket. "Or perhaps an internship. Don't suppose you'd consider interning with me next year?"

"Fuck off."

Peter laughed. "I assumed not. Still, you have some interesting work. Very interesting work." Peter turned to go, satisfied that his plans for his twentieth-anniversary show were secure.

As he neared the door, however, in swept Marcus, his mistress Letitia at his side, and Peter was taken aback yet again. Marcus Hollingsworth, young tech billionaire, had been a client of Peter's for the past three years, ever since he'd first come to New York from the mid-west nowhere he'd grown up in, after his app design company had hit the big time. He had a wife and two kids, his mistress Leticia Something-or-Other who modeled for Victoria's Secret, and a male lover named, of all things, Jade. All three of them—the wife, the mistress, and the lover—knew each other and reportedly got along quite well. He'd always been one of Peter's favorite clients.

Marcus smiled widely. "Peter! Good to see you, man. What are you doing in this neck of the woods? Isn't this a little far from your fancy digs?"

"Slumming, obviously," Peter replied with an answering smile, placing a warm hand on Marcus's shoulder. "I see you're back from your gallivanting. Where was it this time? Europe?"

"Not the whole thing, just the French part," Marcus said with a laugh. Then he looked past Peter and into the shop. "This stuff is wild, huh? Jade picked up some of it online recently, and we're really digging it. Thought I'd pick him up a gift." He looked around again. "And maybe something for me, too."

Peter smiled and joked, made all the right social noises while reeling inside. So much for his thoughts that his clients and Stiles' would never intersect. Once he and Erica were out on the street, he looked back at the storefront for a moment. 

Without looking at Erica, he said, "I'm going to need you to bring him down a peg or two." Then he glanced her direction, making sure she took his meaning.

Erica's grin was pure predator.

**********

Stiles didn’t even like champagne. _Or_ whatever the hell this "art" was supposed to be. So what the fuck was he doing at this stupid art gallery tonight, when, seriously, he _should_ be working?

Don't get him wrong, Stiles was into art. He liked paintings and sculptures and those awesome exhibits where the entire display completely changed depending on where you were standing. But this was just weird. 

Sitting atop twenty pedestals were twenty individual, regular-sized wine glasses with everyday items suspended inside them in clear resin. This one was a house key. That one was a ping-pong ball. A spool of thread. A postage stamp. A bobby pin. Stiles didn’t get it. Sometimes when he didn’t understand an art piece, he assumed it was because it had just gone over his head or something, but this time he thought it was just . . . stupid. Not only did he not understand what the deeper meaning was supposed to be, he didn’t care.

But Isaac had the hots for the artist, and he’d badgered Stiles until he’d finally agreed to come with him to this show, citing all the years he had been donning Stiles' clothes and posing for pictures for free. And now Isaac and the artist, a willowy girl not even five feet tall with wavy blonde hair, like a young, tiny Laura Dern, had disappeared. The asshole. If he wasn’t back in ten minutes, Stiles was leaving without him. Stiles had work to do.

He’d had to scrap or significantly alter nearly half of his planned looks for Fashion Week in order to avoid using "Hale Blue", thanks to that pretentious fucker, Peter Hale. That unreasonably _hot_ pretentious fucker. As crazy as it seemed to Stiles, Lydia had assured him that they really would face legal repercussions if he tried to use that color in his upcoming show. Some things he'd been able to just remake in a different color, but that hadn't always worked out. He'd _known_ there was something shifty about Dmitry when he'd sold Stiles all that blue leather, but who could have predicted this? Well, besides Dmitry, apparently.

Between the long hours he'd been working, his impotent anger at the unfairness of the situation, and this stupid fucking "art", Stiles was just in a foul mood.

And then, in walked Peter "Pretentious-Fucker" Hale.

The perfect target for his ire practically falling into his lap must be a sign.

Peter entered with a dark-haired, grumpy-faced guy, but they quickly separated, wandering to different parts of the gallery. The man was wearing casual clothes, jeans and a beautiful two-tone leather jacket in black and brown, and stiles begrudgingly conceded that they looked just as good on him as the elegant suit had looked the other day in Stiles’ shop. Stiles waited a few minutes for Peter to move through the room, making sure he stayed out of his direct line of sight, trying to avoid thinking too much about the man's shoulders or his neck or his very fine backside. Then he sidled up next to him.

"Of all the shitty art exhibits in this town, you have to walk into this one," Stiles said right next to Peter's ear, and was gratified to see the man stiffen in surprise. He smelled fantastic.

Peter turned to face Stiles, a wolfish grin on his face, and said, "Well, hello there, sweetheart."

"Ugh, not your sweetheart, dude."

"Don't call me dude, dear." The wolfish grin became a smirk.

Stiles pasted on his sweetest smile. "Fuck off and die, asshole."

"Such language," Peter tsked, not looking upset in the slightest. "The youth of today simply have no respect. Or any sense of class." Peter’s glance spoke volumes on his opinion of Stiles' dark jeans, white tee, and red plaid shirt.. "Dumpster diving from the thrift-store rejects, hm?"

"Whereas the fossils of yesterday don't know how to move with the times. Tell me, was it hard working by candlelight back when you started? Before electricity, I mean? I suppose all that squinting would explain . . . " Stiles ran a finger under his own eye, then gestured toward Peter. "But I hear wrinkles are supposed to be 'distinguished' or something." Actually, Stiles found it to be hot as fuck, but would rather get a Sriracha enema than admit it.

"Are you even old enough to drink?" Peter asked, gesturing towards Stiles' champagne flute. "I'd hate for this fine establishment to be penalized for serving alcohol to a minor."

Stiles took a drink from his glass. It was both warm and flat. Gross. "Your jealousy is showing, dude. Just because I was born after the paleolithic era doesn't make me a child. How old are _you_ , anyway? Oh, wait, nevermind. You probably can't count that high. Wouldn't want you to strain your already overtaxed mental abilities, there."

" _Some_ of us actually went to college, darling. But perhaps that lack of life experience explains your . . . unappealing personality. I'm surprised you're even allowed out of your hole to subject the rest of the unsuspecting public to your presence. Don't you have a minder? A handler? Someone to keep you in line? A troupe of friends in greasepaint and an absurdly tiny car?"

"You’re right, I do wish there had been someone here to keep me from this tedious interaction we're having right now. It's strange how every time I'm near you, I feel a burning desire to be alone. What _are_ you doing here, anyway? Shouldn't you be foreclosing on some orphans, or pushing old ladies into traffic or something? I didn't think dastardly villains were into fine art."

Stiles would never admit to anyone how much fun he was having.

Peter shrugged one insouciant shoulder while gesturing toward the wine glass with its suspended Chap Stick tube. "As if you could call this art. My nephew has a bit of a crush on the artist. And I only foreclose on orphans on alternating Tuesdays. Or is that widows? So hard to keep track."

Stiles chuckled. "He might be too late. The artist slipped away with my friend Isaac about ten minutes ago."

"What a pity," Peter said, and then added, "if only because it means the storeroom is probably occupied. Makes it difficult to invite you to let me take you in there and suck you off."

Stiles’ brain shorted out. What? Uh, what? Surely Peter hadn't just said what Stiles thought he'd said. That would be crazy. Right?

Except Peter was still looking at him expectantly, a predatory edge to his knowing grin, like he knew he'd just won something. Tripping Stiles up, confusing him, befuddling him, it was a kind of victory for Peter, feeding his ego. The problem was, Stiles found Peter's particular brand of ego attractive. That kind of presence, the kind that just filled up all the space in any room, had always been a big draw for Stiles. He liked people who were powerful and who knew how to use that power to their advantage. If not for the fact that Peter's ruthlessness had directly affected Stiles' business, it was exactly the kind of power play he liked and approved of. Not when it was directed at _him_ , of course, but he always did like a man who could get things done. 

And really, why _shouldn't_ he take Peter up on his out-of-the-blue offer? For one thing, Stiles never flinched when playing Chicken. For another, Stiles would be lying if he tried to say he didn't want the older man. And, really, Peter owed him. Peter owed him for all his late nights scrambling to reconfigure his entire line. Peter owed him for using Fox House, Stiles' baby, as his "make an example out of someone" target. 

This was probably a terrible idea, but at least it wasn't _Stiles'_ idea. It was Peter's. And that would probably help Stiles feel better about it later. In the meantime . . .

"My friend and the artist left out the front door, so the storeroom is probably free." He flashed Peter a grin and tipped his head toward the corner of the room, where a hallway led into the back of the building.

Peter let out a surprised laugh, and his calculating smirk changed to something that seemed more genuine.

"By all means, after you," Peter said, gesturing with his own champagne flute. 

Stiles wished that his own behavior shocked him, but to be honest, this kind of thing was totally on par with his usual decision making. Not that he usually hooked up with men he despised in art gallery storerooms, just that he frequently ended up doing stupid shit. One part of his brain was yelling at him, telling him what a terrible idea this was, but his feet just kept moving forward. Besides, if Peter was really going to follow through, who would refuse an opportunity to get up on that? Not Stiles, that's for sure.

Stiles opened the storeroom door, and the light from the hall showed the small room was actually quite tidy, with a carpeted floor and neat rows of shelves and racks for holding paintings and sculptures and such, but once the door closed behind them, the room was cast back into darkness. Stiles opened his mouth to say something, make some acerbic comment or another, when he was spun around, back to the door, and Peter was kissing him. Stiles hadn't been expecting kissing, so he was shocked motionless for a moment before his body began returning the kiss automatically, like a reflex. What do you do when someone was kissing you? You kissed them back. But then, beyond the initial surprise, he got lost in it, just a bit. Peter's lips were firm and agile, and the scruff of facial hair against his skin made Stiles nerve-ends tingle. Peter caught Stiles’ lower lip between both of his and sucked gently and Stiles let out a breathy moan, which prompted Peter to slide his tongue into Stiles' mouth and firmly seal their mouths together. Peter tasted spicy and dark.

Stiles realized his hands were being held against the door, high above his head. Peter's hands began sliding down, moving quickly from Stiles' wrists to his hips, pulling Stiles forward a few inches until their hips notched together. Their kisses turned lighter, teasing, as they gasped into each other's mouths, and Stiles was shocked to find he was already getting hard. He didn't think he'd gotten so ramped up so quickly since he was a teenager. Maybe it was the way this was all such a very, very bad idea? Maybe the anger and frustration of the past weeks was catching up with him? Just chemistry, maybe? It would be interesting to see if-

Peter's hips surged against his, grinding hard, and sparks of pleasure shot up Stiles’ spine, effectively stopping his brain from wandering. Fuck, it felt _so good_. Stiles let his head fall back against the door, and Peter took advantage, sucking on Stiles’ neck, just below his ear, then farther down, then scraping his teeth against the space where his shirts started to get in the way. Stiles brought his hands down and buried his fingers in the hair at the nape of Peter's neck and ground his hip forward harder, seeking out more of that fantastic, sparking friction. Fuck yeah.

"Nnngh." The distressed noise came out without forethought as the discomfort of the constriction of his jeans started to override the pleasure of the friction against his rock-hard cock.

"Shhh," whispered Peter, sealing his mouth back over Stiles'. Their tongues tangled again, more frantic than before. Stiles made another distressed sound when Peter moved his hips away, but Peter swallowed the noise into his own mouth and quickly popped the button on Stiles' jeans, eased down the zipper, and pushed his boxers out of the way. Peter stroked Stiles firmly a few times, and Stiles' eyes rolled back in his head. This . . . this was going to be embarrassing. But that thought alone helped him back away from the edge, if only a little. Peter took his mouth from Stiles' with a parting suck to Stiles' lower lip, backed up half a step, and, with a flash of white teeth, a grin that could be seen even in the dark, he dropped to his knees.

Stiles expected to be immediately engulfed in wet heat, but he should have known Peter would be a tease. There was a firm grip on the base of his cock, sure, but then there were a series of teasing licks, nothing more than faint flicks of a tongue, first on one side of the head, then the other, then a barely-there touch against his frenulum. Then a longer, firmer lick from the base to the head, then more of the teasing flicks. The hand on the base of his cock began squeezing in small pulses, squeeze and release, squeeze and release, rhythmically. 

It went on and on, creating a sensitiveness, a tingling in his skin that went beyond just his cock. He could feel the collar and cuffs of his shirts, a bead of sweat in his hair, and the woodgrain of the door beneath his fingertips where he had his hands pressed, not wanting to move and somehow break this spell of arousal Peter was casting. His entire body became one fiery nerve ending. Stiles began to tremble, the light touches making him hyper-aware of how hard he was, how much he needed to come. His muscles tensed and relaxed, tensed and relaxed, in time with the hand squeezing his base, all in an effort to try to seek more of the sensations, to feel _more_. Stiles hips stuttered forward, but Peter held him firmly against the door, and his shaking increased. He struggled to stay quiet.

Finally, _finally_ Peter drew Stiles' cock all the way into his mouth and, the solid, hot friction, while certainly a relief, was almost too much sensation to process after the faint pleasures from before. Peter's head bobbed quickly, sucking fiercely, and Stiles was afraid that he wouldn't be able to come, that he'd passed some necessary precipice and gone too far onto the other side to be able to reach a climax. But then Peter reached behind his balls and pressed a knuckle, hard, into his perineum and all the tension released like a dam breaking and he was coming, _hard_. Pleasure raced through his body like burning and his cock jerked hard in Peter's mouth as it expelled what felt like a gallon of jizz. It felt _so fucking good_. 

Stiles could only stare, panting and dazed, as Peter stood up and practically tore open his own pants, violently fisting his (frankly impressive) cock until he came, with a low groan, all over the front of Stiles' tee shirt and Stiles' softening cock.

"Ew, dude. Gross."

"Don't," Peter said, gasping a little as he massaged his cock through what looked like excellent aftershocks, "call me dude." 

Peter rested his head on Stiles' shoulder as he breathed through his comedown, and Stiles put a hand on the back of Peter's neck, his thumb gently stroking the short hair there, a carelessly affectionate gesture. His eyes had adjusted to the dimness of the room and he realized that he was just a little bit taller than the older man. It must just be his ego that made him seem so much bigger. Or maybe it was the width of his shoulders. Stiles realized his mind was wandering and gave a little chuckle at himself. Peter lifted his head and shook it a little, as if to clear it, giving Stiles a view of the wet streak across the front of his tee.

"Fuck, I really hate you," Stiles whispered, refastening his pants and buttoning up his flannel to hide the evidence while Peter righted his own clothes.

Peter faked a pout. "And I was so nice to you, too."

"Ugh, you're the _worst_."

"Now, darling, we both know that's not true. That was the best you've ever had."

It was true, damn him. The man did give first-rate head. It was practically an out of body experience. Too tired and fucked out to spar with the man anymore, Stiles decided a dignified retreat was probably the best tactic. With a shake of his head, he slipped out the door and left without looking back.

**********

Peter was frustrated by the fact that he couldn’t get that streetwear kid from the other night out of his head. _Stiles_. What kind of name was Stiles, anyway? It must be some immature effort to tie his name somehow to design. Styles by Stiles? Perhaps it was effective with the young crowd he catered to. He was a silly boy, and not worth Peter's time.

Even if the way he trembled beneath Peter's hands and mouth was quite delectable. Even if Peter couldn’t stop thinking about Stiles’ little shocked inhalations of pleasure, as if the pleasure itself was a surprise. Then there was the way he’d obviously fought to keep quiet to avoid discovery. What would he sound like, Peter wondered, in private where he could let all those sounds free?

Damn it. Peter realized he'd been standing motionless in front of this dress form, pins in one hand, marking chalk in the other, for some unknown amount of time, mooning over that _boy_. Unacceptable. 

He returned to working on the vest in front of him, determined to concentrate on his work and not on Stiles. A few minutes later, though, he decided If the vee was a little higher and the shoulders a touch narrower, it would make Stiles' shoulders appear wider while also drawing attention to his neck. The man was in fashion, for crying out loud, and yet never seemed to dress in ways to flatter his own assets. If they did this vest in a bright color, blue, or perhaps a rich violet, and paired it with a shirt with a mandarin collar, then left a couple of buttons undone, it would provide excellent access for Peter to get his mouth back on the skin there, just below his ear. Maybe leave a mark this time.

_Damn it_. Peter put down his pins and abandoned the half-formed vest on the dress form. 

Before he knew it, he was standing on the street once again in front of the Fox House pop-up. The window displays had changed so that on the right was a hooded puffer jacket in dark grey vinyl displayed simply on a hanger, and on the left was a mannequin dressed in a gorgeous black and lime corset vest with no shirt underneath and a pair of seriously ratty jeans, so tattered they made Peter wonder how they even held structural integrity. The juxtaposition, though, between the thrashed denim and the perfectly tailored vest was marvelous, and it made Peter think about the vest back at his own studio he’d been unconsciously designing for Stiles. 

Once inside, he saw immediately that neither Stiles nor the redhead were there. A second look around didn’t immediately reveal who _was_ in attendance to assist customers, but it did let Peter know that the store was doing quite well. These little temporary shops generally got a lot of traffic at the beginning and at the end, but Peter knew this was approximately the middle of the store's life, and there were almost a dozen people in the small shop, fingering completed pieces or studying the prints and specs for made-to-order merchandise. Peter noticed that almost all the blue items from before were gone. Did they sell? Or did Stiles simply remove them from the shop? No, he seemed determined not to remove the items if he wasn't legally required to do so. If they sold, that really was an impressive volume of merchandise to have moved in only a couple of weeks.

Peter was distracted, studying a sketch of a t-shirt and pants combo, diagonal color blocks starting at the shoulder and the ankle on the right side and meeting at the hip on the left, cutting the body into red and yellow triangles, when someone asked, "Can I help you with something, man?"

Peter looked up and saw a young man, floppy hair and crooked jaw, grinning at him. Didn't these children have _any_ adult supervision?

"I was looking for Stiles." Peter pulled out Polite Smile #3, the intimidating one.

"Oh, sorry man, he had a meeting, so he roped me in to mind the store. I'm Scott, by the way. If you want to order something . . ."

"No, it will have to be Stiles, I'm afraid. When is he expected to return?" 

"I dunno, man, couple'a hours?" The little lamb seemed both confused and worried.

"Perhaps if I were to leave my number, you could ask Stiles to call me when he returns." Peter passed the boy one of the cards with his personal contact information, and the young man seemed relieved to be offered a solution.

"Sure, man, I can totally do that for you."

"Thank you." And with nothing else to accomplish here, no opportunity to investigate what kinds of noises Stiles might make if Peter really set his mind to taking him apart, Peter went home to wait and see if the boy would call.

No, not to _wait_. Absolutely not. Peter was going to go home to _work_ , in his home studio. With his phone _coincidentally_ close at hand the entire time. Of course, then he found himself checking his phone every five minutes (even though he knew it hadn't made a sound) and preparing witty repartee in his head (would a Hemingway reference, maybe something from _The Sun Also Rises_ , be appropriate, or should he use something from pop culture instead?) When it became obvious that he wasn't going to get any design work done, Peter headed into his kitchen, hoping to find a distraction there.

Only a couple of hours had passed, and Peter was giving his homemade marinara, his grandmother's recipe, a stir where it simmered messily on the stove in his gourmet kitchen and trying to rationalize away his strange fascination with this, this _boy_ , this infuriating boy . . . when his phone rang.

"I gotta tell you, dude," Stiles said before Peter could even get out a greeting, "if you want to harass me some more about your stupid fuckin' trademark, I'm going to have to refer you to my legal team."

That gave Peter pause. "You have a legal team?"

A pause. "Well, no, but Lydia is on a first-name basis with every law professor at Cornell, so I could probably muster something. What the hell is your problem this time?"

"Actually," Peter said, "I was planning to invite you to dinner as a means of trying to fuck you, but if you're going to be insolent, I'll have to rethink the offer."

"The offer to fuck me?" Stiles asked.

"Don't be absurd. No, just the offer to feed you first."

"Hey, dude, I'm a classy lady. If you want to fuck me, you'll have to feed me first."

"I accept those terms. When can you be here?"

"Whoa, seriously? You mean, like, right now?"

"No time like the present," Peter said, pulling out the pasta dough from where he'd had it resting, and grabbing his French rolling pin. "I'm serving handmade fettuccine and marinara, with," Peter opened his refrigerator door, and peered inside, "blue cheese crusted steaks."

"What the fuck? You cook? You cook, like, _real_ food?"

"It relaxes me. It's a very soothing process," Peter said, a little defensively.

"No, no, it's cool, I'm so there. I can be there in thirty minutes. Where do you live?"

Peter rattled off his address.

"Uh, that's pretty far uptown. Better make it forty-five. I expect to be wined and dined. And then I'll expect you to fuck my brains out."

True to his word, forty-five minutes later the doorman buzzed to let Peter know he had a guest, and Peter okayed sending him up. The homemade pasta was al dente, the sauce was painstakingly crafted from fresh tomatoes and herbs, the steaks were resting under foil, the wine was breathing. 

Not that any of that mattered. As soon as Stiles walked in, Peter was pushing him against the door and devouring his mouth. No finesse, no practiced skill, just pure hunger. Peter just _ravished_ him, and Stiles kissed back with just as much enthusiasm. 

When they came up for air, Stiles said, "What is it with you and doors, dude?"

" _Don't_ call me dude," Peter growled, and fastened his lips on the boy's neck, that spot, just below his ear, the memory of which had been driving him to distraction for days. He sucked hard, determined to leave a mark this time, and Stiles' hips rocked forward.

"Fuck. You fucker. Oh god, yeah, like that. I'm gonna kick your ass if you leave a . . . " Stiles' voice trailed off into a groan. The words and the sounds were everything Peter had been hoping for.

Peter tried, he really did, to find some sense, some rationality, and to pull back and take things more slowly. Yes, fucking Stiles was the goal, but he wasn’t an _animal_ , for fuck's sake.

But then Stiles' moan trailed off, and he took a deep breath and said, "Nevermind the dinner. You're probably a shitty cook anyway. I need you to fuck me."

"I'll have you know, I'm an excellent cook." But Peter already had his hand wrapped around Stiles' wrist, leading him through the penthouse toward Peter's bedroom in the back. Stiles, laugh sounded entirely too delighted, and Peter just couldn’t have the boy keeping his mental faculties in place when Peter's were so frayed, now could he? 

Peter pushed Stiles face-first against the hallway wall and crowded in at his back. Rucking up Stiles' plaid shirt in the back (what the hell was his obsession with plaid, anyway?) he ran his hands across his back, around his obliques, and then down his stomach where his two hands met together again in the middle, feeling the trail of hair there. Stiles instinctively sucked in, his stomach going concave just enough to let Peter slip his hands beneath the waistbands of his cargo shorts and his boxers. There wasn’t enough space in there to really get his hand around Stiles' cock, but he used both hands to fondle and caress it, coaxing the boy to full hardness while grinding his own hardening cock against his ass through all their clothes. Too many fucking clothes, but he had a point to prove. He slid one hand to tug gently on Stiles' balls and used just the tip of one finger from his other hand to rub light circles around Stiles' slit. A tiny dribble of pre-come lubricated the way as Peter forced himself to keep the touch slow and light, circling around and around. Slowly, slowly, the touch barely there, determined to make the younger man concentrate on the sensation, make him crave it, make him _need_ it.

Stiles' hands and shoulders were against the wall, and his face was also, turned to the side, with his eyes squeezed shut, his breaths coming in harsh pants, every exhalation a breathy whimper. His ass was thrust back against Peter's hips and grinding into Peter's rock-hard cock, but the motions were small, not enough to dislodge that single finger circling his slit. He was exquisite. 

Almost regretfully, Peter moved back and pulled his hands from Stiles' pants. He waited until Stiles' eyes were open and looking at him dazedly before he slowly raised his hand toward his own mouth and sucked his finger into his mouth, tasting the sweet-salty pre-come there. Stiles' eyes shut again, as if the sight was too much to bear, and another delicious whimper fell from his lips.

Peter resumed their trek to the bedroom, leading a less-steady Stiles by the wrist.

One day, perhaps Peter would take his time undressing Stiles, but not today. Today he just needed to get to the boy's skin. He undressed Stiles quickly and without fanfare, and with Stiles' help. The shirts were gone in a moment, another few seconds to unfasten his shorts and pull them halfway down before he pushed Stiles back onto the bed and, once Stiles was off his feet, removed shorts, boxers, socks, and shoes with one motion. He made equally quick work of his own clothes while Stiles watched, then crawled on top of him without preamble, simply trying to touch as much of his skin to the other man's as humanly possible. They both writhed a bit until their hard cocks were pressed side-by-side, then they both stilled, panting, and stared into each other's eyes. It felt too intimate, so Peter kissed him.

Things moved quickly after that, both of them desperate and striving. Peter's hands roved over Stiles' sweat-slicked skin, and vice versa. Peter pinched Stiles' nipples, gaining him an intriguing squawk and groan. Stiles pulled the hair at Peter's nape just the right amount to make him hiss with the pleasure-pain. Peter bit down on the tendon where Stiles' shoulder met his throat. Stiles sucked Peter's finger into his mouth, the same finger Peter had sucked out in the hallway, and Peter swore he could feel the pull all the way to his cock.

And, the whole time, they were grinding their hips together, cocks slippery with sweat, sliding past each other in a maddening almost-rhythm, pubic hair rasping against each other in an irritating way but neither of them willing to stop seeking the shocky, lightning-pulses of pleasure.

Finally, Peter couldn't take any more of the madness and he hauled Stiles up toward the head of the bed where he'd stashed lube and condoms under a pillow earlier. He flipped Stiles onto his stomach where the boy landed with a huff and tried to rise onto his hands and knees, but Peter stopped him with a hand in the small of his back, keeping him flat on the bed. Opening the lube with practiced ease, he had two fingers coated in the blink of an eye and slid both between Stiles cheeks and into his ass to the first knuckle without warning.

"Shit, you _asshole_ ," Stiles hissed.

"No, it's your asshole, darling." Peter didn't move right away though, waiting for Stiles' shoulders to relax before beginning to rock the fingers in and out in tiny increments. Soon enough Stiles was shifting, trying to take the fingers in deeper, and Peter gave it to him. In no time Stiles was taking both fingers as far as Peter could bury them, and Peter began brushing them across Stiles' prostate, over and over, again with the light touches, until Stiles was shivering and trying to thrust back on Peter's fingers and down onto his comforter at the same time.

"Fuck, Peter, c'mon man, fuck me, c'mon, I need it, _please_ , you fucker, fuck me, fuck me, fuckin' hate you, you unbelievable dickwad, c'mon, fuck me, please . . ." Stiles was a moaning, swearing, panting mess and it was glorious. Peter would have loved to torment him for longer, but, frankly, if he didn't get his cock in there in the next ten seconds, he thought he might die.

The condom was the work of a moment, and then, finally, he was pulling Stiles up to his hands and knees and pressing inside. He didn't have the patience to go as slowly as he probably should, but Stiles didn't seem to mind, pressing back onto Peter's cock with the same force as Peter pressed forward, meeting him halfway. He looked down to where his cock disappeared into Stiles' stretched hole and felt a deep throb of possessive satisfaction. _Yes_. Yes, this was his, this was for him, fuck, _yes_. Peter very nearly started just hammering away but was able to take a deep breath and start a steady pace instead. It was hard to keep himself from shoving Stiles face-first onto the bed and just rabbiting into him until he came, but he reminded himself that the payoff would be so much better if he could just exercise a little bit of control. With effort, he set a slow, steady pace, in and out, in and out, knowing from the way Stiles moaned and arched his back that he was succeeding in rubbing across the boy's prostrate with every deliberate stroke.

He'd like to say that he could have done this for hours, but the sad truth was that he was getting precariously close to the edge, already feeling the beautiful tension pooling in his groin and tingling up his spine, so he was going to have to move things along. He reached below to grab Stiles and started stroking with his hand in a rhythm counter to the strokes he made with his cock. The way Stiles' ass clenched around him was both wonderful and worrying, since his own climax was rapidly approaching, and he needed to make sure Stiles got there before him. Thankfully, he felt the tension ratcheting higher and higher in the body below him and knew Stiles must be close, so he allowed himself to let go, finally giving up on his slow, steady pace and instead just railing him, hard, and fast, and frantic. Stiles fell completely still, his moans and pleas choked off as if he was being strangled, his body frozen for those last few seconds before Peter felt the cock in his hand let loose, jerking hard. Just in time, too, as the coiled tension inside his own body broke free, and he was coming so hard he couldn't breathe, locked frozen inside his own ecstasy for a few moments before his brain came back online and he was able to move again, stroking slowly in and out of Stiles' ass and stroking Stiles' cock gently, working both of them through their aftershocks. 

Then he pulled off the condom and threw it onto the floor (he was going to regret that later, he was sure) and manhandled him until they were both under the comforter and Stiles was tucked into his side, and then he passed the fuck out.

**********

Stiles woke up from his post-sex nap hot, and sweaty, and unable to breathe. He struggled to extricate himself from both the heavy comforter and the heavy arm draped over him, and finally his wriggling woke Peter, who grumbled as he sat up. They stared at each other, beard burned, hair askew, and completely fucked out, and Stiles couldn't help but laugh. Stiles always assumed that a great fuck would improve anyone's mood, but Peter managed to look cranky despite the epic sex. Well, _Stiles_ felt great, despite the ache in his ass from Peter's monster cock, and he wasn’t going to let Peter ruin his sex-chemical high.

"Dude, I know you old people need more sleep, and all, but I thought you were gonna feed me? I'm _starving_."

Peter rolled his eyes and flung the comforter off of himself, effectively burying Stiles again. Stiles just laughed. Yep, nothing like a good fuck to make a person feel _great_.

Peter disappeared off toward the front of the apartment, so Stiles hopped out of bed, still naked, to avail himself of the en suite . . . and stepped on the used condom. Gross. After getting rid of _that_ mess, he cleaned himself up some and came back into the bedroom just in time to see Peter enter with two plates and two wine glasses, all of it looking a little precarious. Stiles hustled over and shoved the come-covered comforter off the bed, plopped down in the center cross-legged, and made grabby hands toward Peter and the food.

"Oh, god, thank you! I skipped lunch today. Plus, sex always gives me an appetite."

"It would have been better an hour ago," Peter groused as he handed Stiles a plate of now-cold pasta and beef.

"Are you complaining? Because I could've just _not_ let you fuck me, if you'd prefer." Stiles shoved a huge bite into his mouth, not even caring that it was cold.

"Too late, no take backs," Peter said.

Even with Peter being a Grumpy Gus, Stiles was comfortable, there in Peter's bed, naked and eating cold pasta. For all that he thought he hated the arrogant fucker, he couldn't deny that they had chemistry. Chemistry, and a connection. Stiles enjoyed bickering with Peter more than the polite conversations he usually had with other industry people. Sure, people in fashion could be catty, but it was mostly behind your back. At least Peter was an ass to Stiles' face.

And if that was his criteria for a . . . whatever-the-hell this was, then Stiles needed to get his head checked. 

But not today. Today he was blissed out, and eating cold dinner, and picking the brain of one of the industry greats.

"Why just suits though? Why _only_ suits? I mean, obviously you're a snob, so that's part of it, but plenty of formal wear designers have other lines. Not you, though. What's up with that?"

"It's not _just_ suits," Peter said with a sniff, and his pretentious, superior air came through loud and clear even though he was naked and his hair was a hilarious mess. "I make sport coats, slacks, and other separates, as well."

Then it was Stiles' turn to roll his eyes. "C'mon man. You know what I mean."

Peter sighed as if he was the most put-upon man in the entire universe, the gigantic diva, but he did answer.

"I believe in doing a few things, and doing those few things very well, rather than trying to do many things less well. That saying about 'jack of all trades' ends with ' _master_ of none’, and I prefer to be a master of my craft."

"I get that," Stiles said, considering. "It's like how In-N-Out only has like five things on their menu so they can make sure those five things are done right."

"Trust an infant to equate fast food with fine menswear," Peter said, rolling his eyes again.

He was going to strain something, Stiles thought, if he kept rolling his eyes so much.

But then Peter eyed Stiles thoughtfully. "In-N-Out is a west-coast phenomenon. You haven't always lived in New York?"

"Nah, dude, we lived in California until I was ten. My mom died when I was eight, and we stuck it out for a while, but then there was this big fire in my hometown and a bunch of people died. And my dad was a deputy there, and he thought something was fishy about it, but it seemed like everybody else was trying to write it off and he just, he got fed up, or whatever. So we hasta la vista'd all the way across the country, and he works in the Sheriff's department up in Ithaca, now. Might even _be_ Sheriff, come November."

Stiles, who had been talking while intently spinning some pasta onto his fork, glanced up and realized Peter had gone very still.

"What?" Stiles asked. Peter was giving him a strange look, something he couldn't identify. Anger? Shock? Something. Stiles wiped at his face with his hand. Did he have sauce on his chin?

Finally, Peter spoke.

"What . . . what was the name of your hometown? In California?"

"Beacon Hills. Why? Have you heard of it?"

If anything, Peter became _more_ still. Honestly, it was freaking Stiles out a little bit. The silence stretched on and on, but Stiles was, for once, reluctant to fill it. Peter was obviously working through something, and Stiles didn't want to, like, break him. Well, break him _more_. 

Why the hell would Peter freak out at the mention of some podunk town in California? Or was it the mention of the fire? Stiles ran through what he knew about that fire from forever ago, which wasn't much. He'd only been ten, after all, but he'd always been nosy, so he maybe knew more than he should. A bunch of people had died, most of the family. Nine people? Eleven? Big family. All dead except a couple of teenagers who hadn't been home, and who had to be taken somewhere to live with an uncle or something. An uncle in New York, maybe? What the hell had their names been? Damn it, one of the girls who died was in Stiles' grade, although not in his class, and there'd been a memorial at school. Carla? No, Cora. Cora something. Cora Ha- Oh. Oh fuck.

"Peter," Stiles said, his voice as gentle as he could make it. He set his plate aside and slid one hand over Peter's knee. "Peter, do you know Beacon Hills?"

"What a terribly, terribly small world," Peter said, wonderingly.

"Fuck, Peter . . . I'm so sorry. Really, really sorry for your family." Stiles had lost his mom, so he knew what loss felt like, what grief felt like, but the scope of what it must've been like to lose so many was beyond his ability to imagine.

"Well, it's an old hurt now," Peter said, visibly trying to gather himself. "You say your father was on the police force there? During that time?"

Stiles wanted to comfort Peter, but he knew that sometimes the best way to help someone was to avoid picking at a wound. Stiles cleared his throat to dislodge the tension there and to keep his voice from cracking.

"Yeah, he was a deputy. He, uh, he didn't like the way the case was closed so quickly, and he thought there were some discrepancies or something, and he wouldn't leave them alone about it at work. He kept kicking up a fuss, and the Sheriff didn't like it and, I think, threatened some kind of disciplinary action? Or something? So Dad got pissed and quit, and he applied to a bunch of departments all over the country, and Tompkins County said yes first. I was pretty young, and I know he didn't really like to talk about it, and by then we'd gotten pretty good at avoiding the things we didn't want to talk about, so I don't actually know a lot. But, Peter," Stiles continued, carefully, "I could ask him, if you want, if he has anything about, about the fire? Files or just information or something? If you want?" So much for not picking at the wound.

Peter seemed to have himself mostly back under control, and he eyed Stiles with speculation. 

"Your last name is Stilinski," Peter stated, not a question. "I got that much from-"

"Internet stalking?"

"Opposition research," Peter said, his wry smile making a brief appearance. "I hadn't made the connection, of course, but I do remember Deputy Stilinski. Your father. He was the one who contacted me to tell me what . . ." Peter cleared his throat. "Tell me the news. And he's the one I liaised with when I went to collect my niece and nephew and bring them back here to New York with me. He was . . . very kind."

Peter stared at something over Stiles' shoulder for a moment, and Stiles waited, not pushing.

"I've known for years that there would never be any closure, any justice for my family. It wasn't an accident, of course. There's simply no way _no one_ was able to escape the house in the middle of the afternoon. The middle of the night, maybe everyone would have been asleep, but during the day? Impossible. It was an obvious cover-up. I was . . . impressively angry about that," another quick grin, "for quite some time. But I had to finish raising Laura and Derek, and, Derek especially, needed a lot of attention, and a lot of therapy. I couldn't keep banging my head against that particular brick wall. Without them to take care of, there's no telling what I might have done.

"But yes," he continued. "If your father has any information, I'd like to see it. I've mostly accepted that I'll never get vengeance for my family, but I always believe that having information is better than _not_ having information."

Stiles nodded. "Okay, I'll ask him. But, I gotta warn you, dude," Stiles stared, solemnly, at Peter until Peter met his eyes before continuing. "I'm about to hug the _shit_ outta you."

And that was the only warning he gave before flinging himself at Peter and wrapping his arms around him. Peter barely got his plate out of the way and made an indignant noise. It was uncomfortable. There were too many limbs, naked limbs at that, and Peter's knee was pressed into Stiles' thigh hard enough to bruise. Stiles wasn't going to give up, though. A guy who couldn't cheer up even after amazing sex needed more hugs.

Peter made another annoyed, huffing noise, but then, surprisingly, buried his face in Stiles' neck and wrapped his arms around him, returning the hug, melting into it.

They stayed that way for a long time.

**********

Stiles was true to his word, and his father came through. In only two days, Peter had a series of emails in his inbox from John Stilinski, image scans of the police file on the fire at his family home. Peter hadn't studied it in depth yet because just glancing through it had caused such a rage of hurt to rise within him that he'd forced himself to close his computer before he threw it across the room. This development had happened quickly, and he hadn't had a chance to build up any defenses against it, against the memories.

Same with that infuriating, fascinating boy. _Things_ were moving quickly there, too, and Peter wasn't equipped to defend himself against it. They'd both been busy preparing for Fashion Week, so they’d only managed to get together three times in the past couple of weeks, and Peter found, more and more, that he missed Stiles when they were apart. He thought about Stiles while he worked, and he thought about Stiles while he took his team out for a late dinner. He thought about Stiles while he showered, and ate his breakfast, and while he met with his PR firm, and while he was auditioning models. If anyone knew how much time he spent scouring Stiles' website, studying his designs, his clever color blocking, his mishmash of fabrics that still somehow managed to show cohesion . . . Well, that would have been embarrassing.

And, the most surprising part of this obsession was the way he smiled while he thought of him. Erica had accused him of being _chipper_. It was preposterous.

Peter had had relationships over the years, of course, but he never really thought about his partners unless they were right in front of him. Out of sight, out of mind, and all that jazz. 

But not Stiles. There was no ignoring Stiles.

[Stiles:] look @ this!!!

The next text was a picture of some kind of animal, some horrible monster out of nightmares.

[Peter:] Very nice, dear. A new model for your show?

[Stiles:] ha! ur funny

[Stiles:] it's a bear with all th hair shaved off

[Stiles:] awesome right?

[Peter:] Don't you have work to do?

[Stiles:] :p

No, there was no ignoring Stiles. And Peter was starting to think perhaps he didn't want to.

Peter waved Erica over and said, "Call that florist, will you? The one who did Laura's wedding. I need their most ostentatious bouquet. Something truly obnoxious. Something much too big."

"Does he even _like_ flowers?" Erica was already scrolling through her phone.

"I've no idea. But if he does, I want to send him such a gaudy, over-the-top display that he comes to hate them. I'd like to cause flower-based trauma, if possible."

"I'm impressed, boss. I don't think I've ever seen someone send flowers as an attack before. I approve."

**********

Stiles was having the _best_ day. Last night he'd finally gotten caught up on fixing everything for his fall line and tomorrow would be final model fittings. Well, not _final_ final, since Fashion Week was still two weeks away, and things would continue to go wonky right up until the very last second. They always did. But he was as ready as he would ever be.

This morning, he'd finally been able to get back to his sketches for next spring. And he was feeling _super_ inspired. A guy Lydia knew from Cornell had a 3D printer, and had mocked up some pieces for Stiles, demonstrating the kinds of things that were possible, and Stiles had some ideas about collapsible frames for hoods, so that they'd stay stiff and elevated when pulled up, hovering above the head without touching it, but still be able to fold back. He also had some sketches where alternating cuts of fabric would be stretched over a 3D printed base, so that only every-other section would flow like you expected. He'd need plenty of experimentation to figure out what worked and what didn't, but spring was going to be very exciting.

Then, he'd gotten flowers.

Not just flowers, but, like, the biggest frickin' mountain of flowers in the history of ever. It was delivered in a _trough_ for fuck's sake. Stiles’ apartment was small, and his entire living room was workspace. His cutting table was on one side of the room, and his sewing machine, embroidery machine, and serger were along the other. Storage tubs full of fabric and notions were everywhere they could fit. Luckily, the building did come with a small, extra storage locker in the basement where he kept even more fabric, notions, and works in progress.

When he'd first started out, he'd sewn every single piece himself, right here in this room, but that just wasn't sustainable. He’d had too many orders to make everything himself after only one year. He subcontracted out most of his sewing work now, once he had the pattern perfected and a sample made. Some specialty pieces were still made here, but mostly this was just for his design work.

But right now, he couldn't work, because there was a gargantuan bouquet taking up, literally, like twenty percent of his main room. Sitting on the floor (because there was no other surface large enough) it came up to his hip and was wider than the span of both his arms fully extended. The smell was overpowering.

It was gaudy. It was grotesque. Stiles loved it. He pulled out his phone and called Peter.

"Dude, you're evil. This is, like, the grossest thing I've ever seen. It's awesome."

"I'm glad you like them. Are you available for dinner later?"

"I'll have to see if I can find my machete, so I can hack my way out of my apartment, but I should be free after that." Stiles fondled one of the velvety petals of some purple thing he didn't know the name of and grinned from ear to ear.

"I'll make reservations. Come by my place around seven and I'll put you in something appropriate."

"Flowers _and_ a fancy dinner? Lucky me. But, uh, I'm sure you're aware that I _do_ have clothes of my own, right? Nice ones, even."

"Doubtful. Besides, I have something special for you."

"Are there feathers?"

"What?" Peter asked, sounding truly baffled. "Why would there be feathers?"

"If there aren't any feathers or fur or rhinestones, how special could it be?" 

"Just be here at seven. Brat." Peter hung up.

Stiles laughed and started trying to fight his way past Flower Mountain to his worktable. He'd just had an interesting rhinestone idea he'd like to get on paper before he forgot. 

Good ideas, a mountain of flowers, and dinner with a man who was hot as Hiroshima. He was having the _best_ day.

But then Lydia called. 

"Have you checked your email today?" she asked, without preamble. She was using her battle-ready tone, and Stiles felt a tinge of worry.

"Yeah, but not since this morning. Why? What's up?"

"Brandon messaged that there was a _scheduling conflict_ and he had to cancel your slot."

"Oh, fuck." Stiles felt sick, his mind spinning with the implications.

Cancelled. His runway show _cancelled_. Two weeks before Fashion week. There would be no chance to work out something else. Every runway within a hundred miles of Fashion Avenue had been booked for months. Stiles had booked his space almost a year ago, and to have it cancelled like this, at the last minute, was a disaster. It was catastrophic. He'd spent a ton of money on materials for these designs, not to mention the time investment. He'd already booked models, and he'd have to pay them even if his show didn't happen. And without the show, he'd lose half of his potential orders for the next six months. _Half_ if he was lucky. It could be more. If Stiles couldn't figure something out, this could literally mean the end of his business. He had too much invested in this fall line for it to just not happen.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck . . ." Stiles was starting to panic. 

"Breathe, Stiles. Calm down."

"Calm down?" he yelled into the phone. "Fuck. What the fuck am I . . . Fuck!" His breaths were coming fast now.

"Sit down, put your head between your knees," Lydia said in her Boss Woman voice, and Stiles obeyed automatically.

Down here, the smell of the flowers was even more potent. He'd been having a good day. A beautiful, horrible man had sent him flowers. He'd been having _such_ a good day.

"I'll make some calls tonight," Lydia was saying, "and see what I can learn about what happened. I'll come down tomorrow morning and we'll start calling everyone and find a solution. You aren't without contacts, or resources. There _will_ be a solution."

"Okay," Stiles said, calmer. "I was supposed to go to dinner, but I can cancel and start making calls now. Joey might have something, or maybe some information on who _might_ have something."

"No, it's practically after hours already. I'll call Joey after I call Brandon, but that'll be about all we can do tonight. You should go have your dinner, have some fun, relax a little. Seriously. If I can get this settled right now then that's fine, but if not, I'm going to need you on your game tomorrow and that's not going to happen if you spend the whole night spinning yourself into a tizzy. I'll be at your place around nine or nine-thirty, and then we'll hit the phones. There may be a few people we'll need to go see in person, too.

"Who's manning the store tomorrow?" she asked.

"Um, I'm not sure." Stiles was still trying to get his racing thoughts to settle. He closed his eyes tight and rubbed his forehead, thinking. "Isaac in the morning, and then that girl in the afternoon."

" _That girl_ is named Allison, and she's perfectly nice," Lydia said.

Stiles had had to take so much time to rework his lineup after removing Peter's blue that he hadn't had as much time to devote to his pop-up store as he'd planned, and they'd hired some girl Scott had met at the veterinary clinic where he was interning. Stiles actually liked Allison just fine, but he was _so tired_ of listening to Scott rhapsodizing about her numerous qualities that he regretted agreeing to let her work in the shop.

"Yeah yeah yeah. Whatever. Anyway, the shop is covered, and I'll go ahead and go have my dinner and the sex. But Lydia . . . " He trailed off. He didn't know how to say everything he was thinking. He honestly didn't know what he'd do if Fox House folded.

"We'll figure something out, Stiles. We always do. Now go have your dinner. And the sex."

**********

You're late," Peter said when Stiles came in at a quarter past seven.

"Aww, you missed me," Stiles teased as he walked straight up to Peter and right into his space. "Counting the minutes until you could see me again? You're so sweet." Then he grabbed Peter and pulled him in for a tight hug.

Peter wrapped his arms around Stiles in return, and the hug went on for quite some time. Peter was getting worried that something was wrong, but then Stiles pulled away.

“Thanks for the flowers. And the hug.” Stiles looked a little sad for a moment, but then he visibly brightened and reeled Peter in for a kiss.

Peter went along with the kiss gracefully, although this wasn't how he expected this situation to go. But then, things never seemed to go to plan when Stiles was involved. Not that he'd had a strict plan, per se, but his intent was to reassert his dominance in this relationship. He'd accepted that he wasn't going to be able to break things off with Stiles, so the least he could do was ensure the boy knew who was in charge.

Except, well, the kisses were quite nice, and Peter had never been one to cut off his nose to spite his face. Plenty of opportunity to set the record straight later. 

A few pleasing minutes later, Stiles drew back.

"You know, we could always just order in," Stiles said, grin sly and predatory. HIs lips were flushed red and his chin was pinking from where Peter's stubble had scraped his fair skin.

Peter weighed the options and, surprising himself, decided he'd actually like to spend some _time_ with Stiles before getting him into bed.

"We could, but La Bernadin doesn't deliver. I'm afraid you'll have to be patient." Peter turned to lead Stiles toward his bedroom, but he caught a glimpse of Stiles sticking his tongue out at him.

In his room, Peter had laid out the suit he'd selected for Stiles.

"Is this a joke?" Stiles asked, although he didn't sound like he thought it was funny.

"No, why would it be?" He looked over the suit. It all seemed to be in order.

"You won't let me _design_ anything in your precious Hale Blue, but you'll dress me in it from head to toe? You're such an asshole." He sounded more exasperated than angry.

The suit was indeed Hale Blue, as was the shirt. And the tie. And the pocket square.

"You don't like it?" Peter asked, trying to decipher what Stiles' problem was with the garments.

Stiles just shook his head with a rueful twist to his lips and started stripping.

"Not the point, dude. Whatever. Let's get this show on the road, you egomaniac."

Stiles looked amazing in the suit, but that was no surprise. Peter had designed it, after all.

**********

Stiles had to resort to wearing a scarf to cover up all the marks Peter had left on his neck the night before. And they weren't just on his neck. He had hickeys on his chest, his shoulder blade, the insides of his thighs . . . he looked like he'd been attacked by a vacuum. A whole _herd_ of vacuums.

Stiles had decided to take Lydia's advice and not let his impending doom ruin his evening, so he didn't talk to Peter about his Fashion Week problems. Instead, they traded insults and hotly debated grunge rock vs. progressive metal. It had been the best date Stiles had ever had.

After their out-of-this-world meal, Peter had practically torn the blue suit from Stiles' body the moment they returned to Peter's apartment. Stiles had braced himself to be ravaged roughly, but instead Peter spent hours worshiping him slowly and thoroughly. He'd made love to Stiles with an intensity and focus that was a little disconcerting but a lot enjoyable. Stiles had come three times before he'd passed out.

When Stiles woke up in the morning, dragged himself from under Peter, and headed to the en suite to piss and clean up a little before he headed home for his meeting with Lydia, he'd seen the marks all over his body. He'd thrown one of Peter's stupidly thick washcloths, sopping wet with cold water, right into Peter's dozing face. The older man practically burst from the bed with a roar. 

"You asshole!" Stiles yelled, gesturing toward his neck. "How am I supposed to cover this? I have _clients_ , you fucker."

It looked to Stiles like Peter was trying not to look proud of himself . . . and failing.

"Yeah, dude. I get it. You want to mark your territory or whatever. First the suit, now this. And you say _I'm_ immature," Stiles growled as he stalked back to the bathroom.

Peter followed him in and pushed him back against the vanity and proceeded to suck the ever-lovin' hell out of his dick. Stiles had no idea how he managed to come again after the marathon round the night before, but, as apologies went, it wasn't too bad.

The fucker was infuriating. And addicting.

After, Peter had gotten a car service, a nice one, to take him home. Stiles would've refused, but it'd be faster, and he was running late, and he needed to get started on trying to salvage something for his fall show. Peter smirked, because he knew Stiles had forgiven him for all the marks on his skin, and Stiles flipped him off, just because he could. But the car service meant he made it home in time to meet Lydia _and_ he was able to stop and grab coffee from the nice place on the corner so they both had fuel for their upcoming battle. 

Except it ended up being a different battle than he'd expected.

Lydia was already inside when he got home, looking very solemn.

"Good morning, Goddess. I bring an offering of nectar to lay at your shrine," Stiles said, holding out Lydia's caramel macchiato, but she didn't smile.

"Stiles," she said softly, "I got some news this morning from Joey. Last night he said he'd see what he could find out, and what he found out was . . ." She seemed reluctant to continue, but then steeled herself. "Peter had you blacklisted. He's the reason Brandon cancelled your slot, and it's likely that no one will go against him and let you book anywhere else, either. And . . . we've had order cancellations. A _lot_ of order cancellations. The two clients I spoke with mentioned Peter as the reason they backed out." Her eyes were full of sympathy. "I'm so sorry."

Some kinds of shock, they blanked out your brain, made it impossible to think. But others sped up your thought processes, making everything snap into perfect clarity in an instant. Stiles needed only a second to grasp everything that must have happened, how everything had played out.

"That _fucker_ ," Stiles spat. "I'm gonna kill him."

**********

Peter had to put away his work on his spring line and focus on the minutiae that always cropped up in the last week before a major show. A model had sprained an ankle and would have to be replaced. As always, they had more requests to attend than they had tickets, so Peter had to personally decide who got to come and who had to be weeded out. A vest had to be re-made when it was discovered it had been made with the wrong fabric. Consultations with hair stylists, makeup artists, photographers, PR . . . endless little details. It was invigorating, rather than tiring. Especially this year, his twentieth year in the industry. He was in the thick of it, and he loved every minute.

Peter also acknowledged that some part of his improved worldview was due to his budding relationship with Stiles. The boy was a delight to be around, smart and snarky and not intimidated in the least by Peter's reputation. Not intimidated by _Peter_. Peter couldn't imagine Stiles being intimidated by anything. He kept Peter on his toes, kept his creative juices flowing.

They rarely even discussed fashion (unless they were insulting each other) so it wasn't even as if it was their shared experience that drew them together. Given their rocky beginning, they'd both avoided discussing the fact that they'd met while Peter was threatening the younger man over the use of Hale Blue. They seemed to both know, instinctively, that it would be better to let sleeping elephants lie, and to move past their inauspicious beginning by not picking at the wounds.

The night before, in particular, Stiles had seemed to shy away from any shop talk. Peter had wondered if Stiles was perhaps having some kind of difficulty he didn't want to discuss but had decided not to pry. After all, if Stiles was having trouble completing his fall line, it might, possibly, be Peter's fault, and Peter didn't want to rock the boat when they'd been having such a nice time.

Maybe he'd bring it up when he called Stiles this evening. There was a slight, a _very_ slight, possibility that Peter might owe Stiles an apology. If Stiles was having trouble getting everything done in time with the changes he'd had to make in order to remove Hale Blue from his fall line, maybe there was something Peter could do to help. Stiles did most of his work himself, while Peter had a full staff; maybe Peter could lend Stiles some extra hands? Peter mulled methods he might use to suggest it to Stiles without getting the boy’s hackles up or infringing on his pride. Maybe he'd sic Laura on him. People had a hard time saying "no" to Laura.

At the edges of his hearing, Peter became aware of a disturbance outside the workroom only a moment before Stiles came bursting in, just ahead of Erica.

"Back off, attack dog," Stiles was snarling behind him at Erica. "He damn well _will_ see me, if he wants his balls to remain attached to his body." Then Stiles looked around the room until he saw Peter. " _You_ ," he said with venom, "are so fucked."

Stiles looked incandescently angry, and Peter was taken aback. They'd parted on good terms this morning, hadn't they? That had been less than two hours ago. Peter didn't know what he might have done to garner the boy's wrath.

Well, recently, at least.

Erica looked flustered as she followed behind Stiles, which was a rare sight, but she seemed to still be trying to maneuver herself between Stiles and Peter, perhaps still hoping to eject the younger man from the premises. Peter waved a hand at her, letting her know to stand down. The dozen or so people in the workroom weren't even pretending not to watch.

"Are you upset about something, darling?"

"Well, _dear_ , let's see. Any idea why Brandon Marsh would have cancelled my runway slot, hm?" Stiles' was smiling, but it was a hard-edged, manic thing. "Or why nearly twenty percent of my current orders have been cancelled? Any ideas? Anything?"

Actually, Peter had no idea what Stiles was talking about. Well, the words made sense, he understood something terrible was going on with Stiles' business, but Peter had no idea why Stiles seemed angry at _him_ for it. At a loss, he looked around the room, as if the answers were somehow there in the studio with them. 

Then he caught Erica's eye.

His assistant managed to look both sheepish and defiant in turns, and, suddenly, Peter remembered.

_I'm going to need you to bring him down a peg or two_.

The ambiguous order he'd given Erica clear back on the first day he'd met Stiles, fully intending that she'd use Peter’s name and position to throw a few wrenches into Stiles' business. It wasn't the first time he'd done that, or something like it, either. You don't reach Peter's standing in the industry without being ruthless. Sometimes it was just a few rumors, or luring away a promising designer from a competitor, or making it difficult for a model to book with anyone in the city if he’d performed poorly in one of Peter’s shows. This time, apparently the power of his name had caused the promoter to back out of Stiles' show and some clients to rescind orders they'd placed with Fox House. He'd honestly forgotten all about it in the weeks since. 

Not that Stiles would believe him if he said that. Besides, what did it matter if he forgot he'd done it? He'd done it, nonetheless.

"Yeah, I can see you connecting the dots, asshole," Stiles said, very close to Peter now, almost within touching distance.

Not that he'd get to touch Stiles again after this. Which was a shame, really. His relationship with the younger man really had been . . . enjoyable, while it had lasted. Peter strove to ignore the painful tightening in his chest at the thought of things with Stiles coming to an end. 

With an effort, he donned Passive Face #1. It was just as well, really, he told himself. The whole thing had been nothing but a fling, a diversion-

Stiles kissed him.

It was too brutal, really, to be called a kiss. It was more an assault, a punch to the mouth Stiles chose to deliver with his own mouth. Stiles' fingers tugged too hard on the hair at Peter's nape, and he bit Peter's lower lip too hard as he broke off the not-kiss. Then he pressed his forehead to Peter's for a second before pulling back far enough to look him right in the eye.

"I imagine you put this in motion that first day, and then forgot all about it, right? Just throwing your weight around because you could. Make sure the little upstart knew who was in charge. Like an asshole. Of course, I know you're an asshole, I've _always_ known you were an asshole. You're egotistical and controlling and _way_ too used to getting your own way all the time, and I'm sure you didn't put any more thought into slapping me down than you would swatting a fly. Because you're an _asshole_." Another tug on Peter's hair.

"But I love you," Stiles said so matter-of-factly, he could have been discussing the weather. "I love you anyway, you stupid fucker, and if you want me to _continue_ to love you, you're gonna fucking _fix_ this. Okay?"

Peter stared into Stiles golden brown eyes, utterly flabbergasted, and nodded.

"Okay, then," Stiles said, and planted one more punishing kiss on Peter before he turned away and strode out of Peter's studio without looking back.

Peter just stared after him, completely, _absolutely_ , speechless.

**********

Stiles sat on his dad's couch, eating Ben & Jerry's Chunky Monkey right from the carton, and ranted.

"I mean, who _does_ that? Who fucks over someone else's business, their baby, their _life's work_ just to, what? Prove a point? Ugh, he's the _worst_."

Stiles’ dad just looked at him.

"And who falls in love with a guy like that? A masochist, that's who! An idiot. A moron. The dumbest of the dumb. I mean, what's wrong with me? I had a crush on Lyds forever, and, I mean, sure, she's a goddess and all, but you gotta admit she can be a stone-cold bitch. I tried with Jase, but he was just too _nice_. It was _boring_. Ugh, I take it back. Peter's not the worst, _I'm_ the worst."

Stiles stared morosely into his nearly empty carton of ice cream. He'd decided to leave the city and come see his dad since, without a runway to prep for, he didn't really have any work to do. Stiles didn’t make it up to Ithaca as often as he’d like since the bus ride was almost five hours, and he hadn't had that kind of time while scrambling to get ready for Fashion Week. But home was where you went when you were hurting.

When he'd first moved to the city, he'd taken his Jeep and paid for parking, but he didn't use it enough in the city to make it worth the expense, so it was stored at his dad's now. He'd thought having his own car would mean quicker travel times to visit his dad, but it turned out the bus was almost as fast and cost a tenth of the price of a New York parking space.

What would he do if his business went under? If Peter didn't want Stiles after all, and didn't fix what he'd broken? Sure, he could move back in with his dad, but what would he _do_? Go back to school? And study what? He didn't have any idea. When he'd been a kid, he'd wanted to be a cop just like his dad. Could he do something like that?

Just the idea of losing Fox House, though, made him want to cry, to break things, to do, argh, _something_.

But, worse than that, was the thought that maybe Peter didn't want him the same way, that what Stiles had thought was special was just . . . not. Not special. Not permanent. Not worth fighting for.

And how fucked up was that? The fact that he'd almost rather lose the business he'd poured his life into for three years than lose the man he'd only been seeing for a month. 

"I'm a cliché. A rom-com cliché, complete with bad life choices and crying into my ice cream. How is this my _life_?" Stiles looked at his dad imploringly.

"Oh, have we reached the part of the movie where I'm supposed to impart some kernel of wisdom which leads you to an epiphany?" John asked.

"Yes, please."

"Sorry, kiddo. I got nothin'. Unless you want me to threaten to shoot him?"

Stiles groaned. "No, I'd hate to find out he'd rather be shot than be with me."

"That hardly seems likely."

"That's the worst part, though. I _know_ he cares about me. I just don't know if-" 

Stiles was cut off by the ringing of his phone. An actual ring. Stiles' phone had been on vibrate for _years_ , but he wanted to make extra sure he'd be able to hear it, just in case Peter called. As if he hadn't been staring at it non-stop since he stormed out of Peter's studio.

But this wasn’t a number he recognized.

"Hello?"

"Hello, I'm looking for Stiles Stilinski," a man said, not someone Stiles had ever talked to before, he didn't think.

"This is Stiles."

"Oh, good. This is Marco Donato, from Spring Studios. I understand you're looking for a runway slot?"

Stiles forced himself not to squee. Spring Studios! His slot at Brandon's place would have been in Bryant Park, which was respectable enough, but the shows at Bryant Park weren't as prestigious as they used to be. In recent years, the big names had all migrated to Spring Studios. 

"I am," Stiles confirmed, trying to sound calm although his heart was racing.

"We have a time slot you're welcome to use on Tuesday. It's an earlier slot, twelve forty-five to one fifteen, and there's a backstage prep area you can use for two hours before, but we need to get Telfar Clemens into that backstage area by one thirty or so, so we'll need you to clear out by then."

"That shouldn't be a problem," Stiles said. Telfar! Telfar would be using the same staging area as Stiles! Stiles was going to die of excitement.

"I'll put you down, then. Do you already have exclusive ticket holders we need to accommodate?"

Stiles thought quickly. He actually hadn't reserved seats for anyone but Lydia, but if he was going to go to the big show . . .

"I'll need six for my show, and one all-day pass, if you have any available." Stiles didn’t want to press his luck, but Lydia had been a real savior lately, and he didn’t even pay her. If he could get her a day pass to the shows at Spring Studios it would be an awesome “Thank You” gift.

"That can be arranged. Email me the guest information, and I'll send you an information packet." 

They exchanged email addresses, and after Stiles hung up, he just sat there, grinning at his phone, his mind whirling with everything he'd need to do if he was going to show his fall collection at Spring Studios.

"So, I take it Peter is forgiven?" Stiles' dad asked.

Stiles looked up at him, grin still as wide as the sky.

[Stiles:] good job fixn wht u fukt up

[Stiles:] now u just gotta make it up to me

[Peter:] Isn't that what I just did?

[Stiles:] that was just fixing what u broke

[Stiles:] now i want a proper apology

[Stiles:] better make it good

[Peter:] You're such a pain in my ass.

[Stiles:] :D

**********

As busy as he was, as much as there was to do, Peter could barely concentrate on work. It was becoming a theme ever since he started his relationship with Stiles. Peter had thought maybe being in a relationship would distract him too much, harm his business, but, if anything, Peter had been _more_ productive, _more_ inspired, _more_ inventive since he began seeing Stiles. There was no denying the fact that Peter’s planning for his spring line was well ahead of where it usually was by this time, that his employees were happier, and that Peter was happier.

At least, he _had_ been happier. Today he was miserable, and determined to ensure that everyone around him was miserable, as well. 

The realization that he’d fucked up his relationship with Stiles was uncomfortable enough, but the adjacent realization that he _wanted_ to make things work with Stiles, that he desperately wanted a relationship with him and might not be able to have it unless he could find an appropriate apology, was unbearable. Peter wasn't used to wanting things that he may not be able to have. 

But then, how had he gotten everything else he'd wanted? By making a plan and executing it. With cunning and cleverness. Persistence. Even, occasionally, with hard work.

Why should this be any different? He just needed a plan.

Suddenly, Peter realized that Derek was at his elbow, trying to get his attention. Probably had been for quite some time.

"What," Peter snapped. Derek seemed unfazed, but, glancing around the room, Peter could see that everyone else was scurrying around avoiding eye contact.

"Laura's in your office," Derek said, face expressionless.

"Why, Derek!” Peter said, drawing out Derek’s name. “Did you tattle to your sister?" Peter's grin was caustic. He might have been impressed with Derek’s initiative if it wasn't so annoying, timing-wise. He had too much to do.

Derek didn't even look ashamed, just tipped his head toward Peter's office.

Whatever. Maybe Peter wanted to talk to Laura, anyway. He'd just been thinking, after all, about making a plan, and Laura knew more than Peter when it came to relationships. She'd been married for nearly five years, and they seemed . . . happy enough.

"Fine," Peter snapped, throwing down his sketching charcoal. No sense in giving in too gracefully.

Laura was, annoyingly enough, sitting behind Peter's desk, a little power play attempt of her own, but those kinds of tactics didn't work on Peter. This entire establishment was his, these chairs on this side of the desk just as much as on the other. Sit wherever, loom however, he was never intimidated. Especially by a niece whose diapers he'd once changed. He sat casually in one of the guest chairs. 

"To what do I owe the honor, my dear? You hardly ever leave your little den in Brooklyn these days."

"I've had three calls in two days from people asking me to come rescue them from your vile temper. So, here I am. Rescuing." 

She looked so much like Talia these days, Peter thought. Motherhood suited her, smoothed out her stubborn edges. But Peter didn't need to be mothered. He needed advice.

"What would you recommend as an apology gift?"

Laura blinked, obviously taken off guard. "Apology? _You?_ Who in the world do _you_ think merits an apology? Your PA? A client? Any one of the designers or tailors you've been horrible to in the past few days?" She looked truly baffled, and Peter was a little hurt. Surely he wasn't _that_ bad, right?

Right?

"My lover, actually. Boyfriend. Whatever you want to call it." Peter waved a hand. "I may have . . . inadvertently, of course, hurt his business. And perhaps his feelings. He's demanding I grovel in order to repair our relationship. I've decided to humor him." Peter flicked a bit of lint from his suit pants. 

Laura merely blinked again, owlishly.

"So," Peter continued, "I'm guessing that flowers aren't going to suffice. And I don't really know what kind of gift is appropriate under these circumstances. Jewelry? A watch, maybe? I thought you might have some insight. What do you buy Gregory when you piss him off?"

Laura managed to find her voice. "You have a _boyfriend_? A boyfriend you like enough that you're willing to _apologize_? Is this a joke?" She looked around the room. "Am I in some freaky alternate dimension? A reality TV show?"

"If you're only going to make fun, rather than help, you can just-"

"No, no, no! I'm sorry. I'm just . . . surprised. You're going to have to tell me everything.” She smiled wickedly. “If you want help, that is."

"Yes, that sounds completely sincere. You just want to have blackmail material," Peter groused.

"Hell yes, I do," she said with glee.

Peter told her the whole thing. About the first time he'd met Stiles, and about arranging to damage his business. About running into him at the art show, and how they'd started seeing each other regularly, and about how Peter hadn’t remembered what he'd set in motion. About Stiles storming in and confronting him about it and the surprise confession of love. About what he'd already done to try to make it right.

Laura looked more sympathetic than gleeful, by the time Peter's story wound down. "Well, he's right. Getting him a new runway show was a good start, but it's not really an apology. And I don't think buying him an expensive watch is going to do the trick, either. You're going to need to make an actual, heartfelt gesture. A genuine appeal to his better nature. Although," she added, "if he's in love with _you_ , he may not have a better nature."

"Ha fucking ha. What would you suggest then? Some kind of public groveling? Big message in Times Square? A time machine to go back and _not_ fuck up?"

"I wish you could, just so I could watch. I bet that was some first meeting. What were you doing in his shop, anyway?

"I went down there to . . . " Peter trailed off, thinking, remembering how he'd gone there to make an example of Stiles' little fashion house, fresh off his victory with the trademark office.

And he knew what to do, what "grand gesture" to make.

**********

Stiles was so fucking _pumped_ to be here. The fact that he was backstage at Spring Studios was like a dream, and he couldn't seem to stop smiling. He was running around like crazy, fixing last-minute bits and bobs, checking fit and finishes on all the models, making adjustments, and grinning the whole time.

Forty looks and twenty male models meant the models would each walk the runway forty-five seconds apart, then have about fifteen minutes to change into a second look before going back out. Then Stiles' seven favorite looks he'd done this season, his signature looks, would go again, one after another in a line, with Stiles trailing behind and waving at the (hopefully) cheering crowd. Last spring he'd done thirty looks and ten models, and at a much smaller venue with a much smaller staging area, and it had been chaos.

Backstage at Spring Studios wasn't anything at all like other shows he'd done in the past. There were five different staging areas, all with dressing rooms, hair and makeup facilities, and long tables laid out with food. It was frantic, of course, but there was so much room to spread out that no one got in each other's way. It was a dream, really. Stiles pinched himself again. Nope, not a dream.

Stiles adjusted the way the leather skirt fell on the model's hips, chatting with the model, a tall guy named Lucas who was a little bulkier, muscle-wise, than a lot of the guys in this industry, and who gave him zero crap about wearing a skirt. (See Scotty? Fuck your misogyny.) Stiles had had to remake the skirt in a pewter color he didn't like quite as much as the original blue. Stiles himself was wearing the blue "plaid" leather vest he'd designed and had to scrap from the show. Peter, the bastard, could stop him from _selling_ clothes in Hale Blue, but he couldn't stop him from _wearing_ them.

Stiles' smile dimmed, remembering that he was here thanks to Peter. Peter, who he hadn't heard from in five days. Stiles had tried to keep his spirits up, ice cream binge at his dad's aside, but it was hard to hold out hope when it looked like maybe Peter didn't want him after all. Well, fuck him. Stiles was a _catch_ , thank-you-very-much, and if Peter couldn't just show up in person with some flowers or something and say he was fucking sorry . . . Fuck that guy.

Stiles was sitting on the floor, repairing a hem on some pants that were already on the model, when Lydia walked up. He glanced up at her before looking back down to watch his stitches. 

"Pretty awesome, huh?" Stiles said, then swore. He'd stabbed himself deeply with the needle.

"It's a packed house out there already," Lydia informed him. Then, "Don't bleed on the clothes, Stiles."

"Ha ha," Stiles said, deadpan.

Lydia looked around the room, then said, "Everything looks great. I'm really proud of the way everything turned out. You did a great job under less-than-perfect circumstances."

Stiles stared up at her in shock. "Lydia, did you just _compliment_ me? Am I dying? Is this your way of trying to tell me I'm dying? Or wait, am I actually asleep?"

"Ha ha," Lydia said, perfectly copying Stiles deadpan delivery from only seconds ago.

"I only wish," Stiles started, but Lydia was gesturing for him to turn around.

Peter. Peter was here.

Stiles flailed as he tried to get up from the floor . . . and stabbed himself with the needle again. "Fuck!"

Hope and excitement filled his chest as he gained his feet and watched Peter walk toward him, although he tried to keep it in check. Peter wasn't carrying flowers, after all. Instead, he had . . . was that an envelope? 

Fuck, he looked so good. Stiles had missed him so much. His suit looked amazing and his hair looked perfect and the top button of his shirt was open and his neck looked so fucking lickable and . . . and Stiles just wanted to climb on for a ride. How shitty of an apology would he be willing to accept from Peter and still keep his self-respect? Stiles had promised himself that he wouldn't accept any half-assed apology, that it was important, no matter how much he loved the asshole, that Peter knew he couldn't be an asshole to _Stiles_ and get away with it. Start as you mean to go on, and all that, and if he let Peter get away with his bullshit this early in their relationship, he'd be walking all over Stiles in no time. 

So, yeah, standing your ground early was a good idea, but Stiles _really_ missed Peter. Faced with Peter's stupidly handsome face, Stiles found the idea of sticking to his guns just a little more difficult. Maybe, if Peter at least kind of indicated he was sorry Stiles could, maybe, let it slide a little, just this once? Like, maybe the _next_ time Peter fucked up would be a better time to put his foot down? He'd already made that big scene at Peter's studio, though, so how could he back down from that and still have Peter respect him? How could he respect himself?

"Hello, Stiles," Peter said, and Stiles’ spiraling thoughts ground to a halt.

"Hi, Peter." They were standing close now, and Peter's eyes were very blue.

"I love you, too," Peter said, and Stiles' jaw dropped in shock. "I figured I should say that," Peter continued, "before anything else."

Well, it started off great, but then it got a little ominous. Stiles' didn't know if he should be thrilled or crushed. Luckily, Peter didn't torture him.

"I really am sorry. Not because of what I did, exactly, since we both know I'm no saint. But I'm sorry I did it to _you_. Whatever my other failings, I do usually try to do right by those I care about." Peter donned a small, lopsided, mischievous smile. "I know there's supposed to be some lesson here, about karma or 'watch out who you step on since they may end up being the love of your life' or something, but I'm not likely to learn from it. And I'd promise not to do anything like it again, but I don't think lying to you is the best way to get back into your good graces."

Stiles thought that was probably true, all of it. Stiles had fantasized, a bit, about the kind of groveling apology Peter might deliver, but he had to admit that this reality was better. More genuine. More Peter. Stiles' heart was beating hard enough to burst from his chest, and the swelling thrill of happiness felt almost unbearable. He should say something, but before he could figure out what, Peter was continuing.

"In lieu of the kind of apology you could get from a better man, I elected to go for a grand gesture instead." Peter flourished the envelope Stiles had noticed before. He took it tentatively, as if it might bite. Well, with Peter, there was no telling.

"What’s this? A fat wad of cash?" Stiles really hoped Peter wasn't going to screw up what had been, so far, a quite satisfactory apology. But inside were papers. Legal-looking papers, at least ten pages worth, that Stiles couldn't make heads nor tails of in his quick glance. "What is this?" he asked Peter.

Lydia snatched the papers from his hand. Stiles had forgotten she was there. He'd forgotten anyone was there, really.

"Hmm," Lydia said as she scanned the papers quickly. "Carte blanche authorization for Fox House to use Hale Blue. Very nice. You'll understand if I have our legal team look over this, ensure this can't be rescinded if Stiles dumps your ass, right?" With a raised eyebrow in Peter's direction, she turned away, still looking over the papers as she moved away to give them privacy.

Stiles thought of the blue leather suit he'd stashed away instead of selling . . . and smiled. 

"Quite the grand gesture. You could've just gotten me flowers, ya know. Flowers are a time-honored apology bribe." Stiles raised his hand to the back of Peter's neck to draw him closer.

"But I already sent flowers once. I don't want to fall into a rut already." Peter's hands settled on Stiles' hips, and they were so close now they were breathing the same air.

"I guess there'll be plenty of time later to fall into a rut," Stiles agreed.

"Will there?" Peter asked. "So, we _will_ be having a 'later' then? I'm forgiven?" 

"Yeah, I guess since you're gonna let me make all the Hale Blue hoodies I want," Stiles could actually feel the shudder that ran through Peter at the thought, "and since I'm already so in love with you and all, I'm gonna let your evil mastermind shtick slide, just this once."

Stiles didn't think he'd ever seen a smile that wide on Peter's face. Apparently Peter, with his ego as wide as the ocean, had been worried about Stiles' verdict. It was gratifying for Stiles to feel like Peter was equally invested in their relationship.

"I might as well let you use Hale Blue for whatever you want," Peter said. "It looks better on you, anyway."

Stiles huffed out a laugh. "Wow, did you strain something just now?" 

Peter grimaced. "Little bit, yeah."

"Don't hurt yourself, old man." Stiles moved the last few inches to plant a mostly-unsuccessful kiss on Peter. They were both smiling too widely for kissing to be effective, but they gave it their best shot.

Before they could quit grinning and get more serious about the kissing, Lydia came over and cleared her throat, loudly, to get their attention.

"As nice as I'm sure this is for you two, there is the little matter of the runway show that is supposed to start in ten minutes."

"Oh yeah," Stiles said. "I have a thing. Are you gonna stay and watch?"

"Wouldn't miss it, darling," Peter said. The giant sap.

Stiles and Peter just stood there, grinning at each other, until Lydia snapped her fingers. "Today, Stiles."

"Okay, okay," Stiles grumbled. "Slave driver." 

"I'll meet you after," Peter said, and placed one more quick kiss on Stiles' forehead before striding away.

Looking around, Stiles was a little dismayed to see all the models had obviously been watching the entire scene. Stiles blushed, but didn't really have time to freak out, so instead he got to work doing his final checks. 

And then, before he knew it, a stage manager was handing him a mic, and Stiles stepped out onto the runway. It was a good thing Stiles hadn't had a chance to peek out at the room beforehand or he might have had a panic attack. The place was huge, and it was packed. Spring Studios never had any trouble filling seats, even for relative newcomers like Stiles. The lights were bright on the runway but dim on the crowd, so making out details of anyone's faces was difficult, but Stiles peered past the light and into the dimness beyond until he saw Peter and Lydia, about half-way down on the right side, in the front row.

"Hi, I'm Stiles Stilinski from Fox House, welcome to my show. As cheesy as it is to say, this collection is inspired by love, the big, capital L kind of love, and all its highs and lows. Hope you all enjoy the show." There was more polite applause. With a wave, Stiles slipped back through the curtain to go put on the biggest show of his life.

**********

Peter decided this unfamiliar feeling in his chest must be _pride_. How strange.

The fall line on the runway was an undeniable success. Not Peter's style, of course—too much hardware and bling, entirely too many hoodies, and too many holes in the pants. But Stiles' clothes managed to be innovative without going too far, pushing boundaries without becoming a joke. For the right demographic, all of the pieces on display were wearable, if only a little outrageous. The proportions were divine, and the seaming was inspired. How did he get that shoulder to lay flat when the seam was so close to the neckline? Was there a hidden dart? Peter was going to have to look at that more closely later. He ought to be able to finagle a closer look, given that he knew the designer. Intimately.

The murmuring of the crowd swelled with excitement, and everyone in the press row seemed to be either writing or typing furiously. It was obvious the displays were going over well with the spectators. Good. Peter could appreciate Stiles' talent, even if he'd never wear anything from Fox House personally.

Well, maybe _never_ was too strong. It seemed there wasn't much he wouldn't do to make Stiles happy. 

Peter had felt profound relief when it had become clear that Stiles was going to forgive the little matter of Peter trying to ruin his business. Besides, being in love with Stiles aside, it would have been a shame to push him out of the industry. With his talent, he would go far. Peter always had liked the best of things, and Stiles was the best at what he did, even if Peter had had to be . . . firmly encouraged to acknowledge Stiles' value in the fashion industry.

"Oh, look," Lydia said, from beside him, tapping Peter's arm. "He put it back in. I wonder why he even had it with him today?"

Coming down the runway was a suit. Leather. In Hale Blue.

Leather suits were tricky. It was difficult, nearly impossible, to design it in a way that didn’t make the wearer look like a 90's rap star or a dom daddy in a leather club. Stiles managed to make it an elevated look, though. The jacket had two vertical black stripes down the front from the shoulder, tapered in slightly toward the center button and then flared back out to reach the middle of the top of the thighs. The half-inch wide stripes continued on in the pants down the front of the leg, ending in matte black boots. It had wide, high lapels over a turtleneck instead of a button-up. It was a beautiful ensemble, and Peter thought maybe Stiles wouldn't have to twist his arm to get him into a Fox House design, after all.

When Stiles came back out, the cheers were deafening.

**********

Stiles found himself, once again. pressed back against the front door of Peter's apartment, being kissed to within an inch of his life.

Between the success of his show and reconciling with Peter, Stiles had been riding high for hours, even through all the after-show clean-up, answering questions from the press, and dealing with his web hosting company about his site crashing. He'd gotten questions from actual reporters! So many people had tried to order stuff from his web store that he'd overloaded their servers! He got to be with Peter, like, forever! The whole day was surreal, and Stiles felt like _his_ servers were overloaded. When he'd told Peter that he was freaking out a little, Peter had suggested that maybe a good, hard fuck would help him settle. Stiles didn't think that getting all ramped up for sex was calming, but there was no way he was turning down a little afternoon delight. Sign him the fuck up.

"C'mon, Peter," Stiles said, tugging at Peter's clothes. "Hurry _up_."

Peter growled and dragged Stiles toward the bedroom, tearing his own clothes off one-handed and leaving a trail of discarded garments down the hallway. Soon enough they were both undressed and Peter was pushing Stiles back onto his bed. 

Not that he had to push very hard. Stiles ran his hands all over every inch of Peter he could reach and fastened his mouth onto Peter's collarbone, sucking and nibbling there. It felt fantastic being pressed there against Peter, chest to chest, cock to cock, thigh to thigh, both of them grinding and writhing and gasping. It seemed like Peter was moving away and Stiles was about to protest when he realized that Peter was just hunting for lube and condoms. Oh, good thinking. Brilliant, really. Peter prepped Stiles quickly, both of them feeling too wired to take things slowly. 

And then, _yes_ , Peter was pressed inside. His fucking monster cock stretched him too much, of course, but it was the kind of pain you just accepted as eventually leading to good things, easily ignored. Especially since that, _right there_ , felt fucking wonderful. Stiles had one hand holding one of his legs back to give Peter more room and the other arm braced above him on the headboard to keep him from migrating any higher on the bed. Peter was moving more quickly than usual, his movements more frantic, more frenzied. Stiles loved the way Peter was always so methodical and controlled when they fucked, but seeing that control slip was super-hot, too. Peter slammed into him, hard and fast, and Stiles just held on, watching Peter be the one to fall apart for once. A couple more hard thrusts and Peter's face twisted into a grimace of pleasure as he stilled inside Stiles. 

Stiles desperately needed to come himself, so he reached down to grab his own cock, but he'd only gotten a couple strokes in before Peter slapped his hand away, pulled his dick out of Stiles' ass and curled around to take Stiles dick most of the way down his throat. Oh, fuck yeah. A couple of deep, hard sucks, and Stiles was coming, his cock jerking hard in Peter's mouth, deep pulses sending his jizz straight down Peter's throat.

They both lay there for a few minutes catching their breath, doing that "basking" thing that Stiles always thought was silly, or a myth, or whatever. Turned out it was a real thing. Imagine that. It also turned out that Peter was right about the hard fuck being a great way to chill out. Stiles felt much more mellow there in the aftermath. 

Eventually, though, Peter started trying to get up. "I know you're done with your show, but mine is Friday, and there's still a lot to do. I've lost most of the day already, so I really need to go in and play catch-up with what's left of the day. You stay here and nap."

Stiles grabbed Peter and pulled him back down, then grabbed the comforter and wrapped it around both of them.

"Fucking workaholic. You can stay here and cuddle for fifteen minutes, asshole."

Surprisingly enough, Peter did.

**********

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Tangled Up in Blue](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19223257) by [Faladrast (surfgirl1)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/surfgirl1/pseuds/Faladrast)




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